


Seeing Stars

by Gamebird



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Episode: s04e18 The Wall, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamebird/pseuds/Gamebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in The Wall. Three years into being trapped in the same nightmare world, alone yet together, Peter and Sylar have drifted from fighting, to polite, to comfortable. They struggle through the difficult process of forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing Stars

They were lying on their backs on a thick blanket on top of a skyscraper, looking up into the night sky. After almost three years together and yet alone, here behind the Wall. Peter and Sylar had become, if not friendly, then at least very comfortable with one another. They still fought from time to time, but the arguments had become few and far between. Peter's intense wrath had wound down after the first year. During the second, Sylar finally got it into his thick skull to stop provoking him – really internalized it, not just understood it intellectually. Now they were star-gazing. It was a few months shy of the anniversary of their third year (not that Peter wanted to know, and he was getting pretty damned annoyed at Sylar's too-frequent reminders of how long it had been – sometimes it seemed like they bickered like a married couple).

Sylar had been teaching him about astronomy. It was something to talk about. With all the lights off in the city at night, the sky was often brilliant and spectacular. Astronomy had been one of Sylar's hobbies. Even though Peter knew he should be down there hammering at the Wall, he could still be persuaded away from time to time to take breaks. Sylar had become skilled at such persuasion. It had started with dinner, which was a good enough reason to leave the sledgehammer alone for a little while. Peter didn't need to eat, but he got hungry anyway. His body had wants, even if they weren't actually needs. After a delicious meal (Sylar was a wonderful cook and when he really wanted to persuade Peter, he fixed the man's favorites), stomach full and feeling warm, Peter had felt grateful enough to be cooperative about going up to the roof for a little while – 'until dinner settles', he'd said.

It had been a hot day and he'd swung that damn hammer for most of it. He was full now. The warmth of the asphalt diffused slowly through the quilt they'd brought up. He'd paid attention to Sylar's soft words describing the heavens early on, but finally his attention wandered – stars were Sylar's interest, not Peter's. He drowsed for a while. At first he thought he was dreaming …

A hand rested on his jeans, over the top of his thigh. After a moment, it drifted upwards. He shifted, thinking he must have put his own hand on his leg and it was … no, that wasn't him. He blinked his eyes open and turned to look at Sylar, whose hand had come up to where his leg joined with his abdomen and now dragged slowly up to his waistband. Sylar's eyes were on him intently, his expression positively drenched in lust. Peter had seen the way the man looked at him sometimes. He wasn't ignorant. He'd … well, he'd like to think he hadn't encouraged it, but more than a few times he'd posed, postured, and showed himself off. He'd thought of it as spiteful – 'you can't have this' and 'look but don't touch.'

Peter started breathing harder, blinking rapidly. Sylar's hand drifted over to the button of his jeans. Swallowing, Peter jerked his hand over and grabbed Sylar's before the man could unfasten them. He pushed down a little and let go, intending the gesture to communicate something other than it did, because instead of pulling his hand away, Sylar began touching exactly where Peter had left the man's hand, directly over his groin. He'd already been hardening, but a direct touch – or near-direct, as he was still clothed – ran all through him.

How long had it been? More than three years, that was for sure. He'd broken down eventually and masturbated here in the dream-world they inhabited, hoping like hell Sylar wasn't aware, even on some subconscious level. And yes, he'd posed for Sylar because he'd been flirting, because he'd thought about him in turn, because Peter was teasing and appreciative of the looks and he wanted the attention. It was just that anytime Sylar hinted he wanted more, Peter acted like he didn't understand and changed the subject.

It was hard to misunderstand  _this_  and instead of reasserting that he didn't want it, by pushing Sylar's hand away once more, Peter let his own fall to the side and he looked up at the stars again. Sylar's fingers traced the bulge of Peter's erection, caressing him and making a heat rise throughout his body. It felt wonderful. It felt fantastic. His whole being seemed centered on that one part of his body being touched and stroked. It had been almost as long since Peter had experienced any touch at all that wasn't strictly utilitarian. He was so starved for it that he shuddered now, moaning slightly. He bit his lip to stifle himself.

Was this just like masturbation? They were in Sylar's head. Did it matter if he thought dream-Sylar's hand was on him? He didn't want anything to matter. He just wanted to keep feeling this way. He struggled to muffle another moan as the other man shifted his grip and began rubbing up and down with more pressure.

Sylar scooted closer and it wasn't just his hand touching Peter, but now his whole body, shoulder to foot. He lifted his long, thin, jean-clad leg and slipped it between Peter's, rubbing his own groin against Peter's hip, squeezing Peter's thigh between his knees. His erection was a hot, rock-hard lump shoving against Peter's body in time with the motions of his hand.

Peter was being molested. He'd never said yes. He'd never invited this (but the looks, the gestures, the other day when he'd taken his shirt off claiming it was too hot to wear while he worked and the way Sylar had ogled him had made Peter nearly bite through his lip to suppress his grin as he picked up the hammer). This would change everything, wouldn't it? If he let Sylar continue? He'd already done a lot and Peter hadn't stopped him, would it change anything if he just waited a little longer? Wouldn't it confuse the man if he stopped him now? He didn't want to hurt his feelings. They were trapped here, after all …

He could feel that his own precome had wet his underwear. The head of his cock rubbed back and forth across the dampness as Sylar pumped him. Peter reached over and took hold of Sylar's forearm, stopping him, breathing almost too hard to speak. The world was spinning. He clung to the man's arm. Sylar had stopped thrusting against him at his touch and was watching him now.

"No?" Peter asked, said? He wanted it to be firmer. He wanted it to be decisive. It wasn't.

Sylar's face hardened. He knew what Peter was getting at, Peter could see that. He could see the decision made in the other man's eyes. Sylar leaned in and kissed him and Peter didn't jerk his head away, didn't do much of anything. Sylar crawled over him, his eyes begging Peter not to push him away again, because it had been at least as long for him. He had needs, even if, like the eating, they were really just  _wants_ , but at the moment they were consuming him. Sylar started rutting their groins together directly, letting his body settle over him, holding himself up only enough not to squash him, but trying to get as much contact as possible.

Peter was watching the other man's face, seeing his desire. The pressure of another body on his was something he had only been able to fantasize about until now. He'd said no. Shouldn't he stop? Shouldn't Peter stop him? If he meant no, then shouldn't he do something since Sylar was still going? Instead of stopping he'd climbed on top of him! (And that was incredible, like main-lining heroin, like feeling swept away with the first flush of love, like having sex for the first time in three years with a man who should be forbidden to you but who wanted you desperately …)

There was no way this was 'masturbation' – this was sex. Peter was rapidly building to a climax, his body very, very happy about being stimulated this way. A tingling began to sweep across his skin, starting from his gut and spreading to the tips of his fingers and toes, and to the roots of his hair, then rebounding back, flooding even stronger to his crotch until he exploded, coming in a series of shuddering jerks, his hands reaching up to grasp Sylar's hips as he made an involuntary whimper.

The other man was still fucking against him, but somehow Peter's orgasm had snapped some sense into Sylar. The repercussions of what he was doing – Peter's lack of consent and even explicit, though tremulous protest – he was trapped in here with this man. What was going to happen when he got off of him? Peter could see the fear creeping over Sylar's face as the other man's motions slowed rapidly.

If Peter did nothing, Sylar would leave, his attentions unreturned, knowing he'd forced himself on Peter. How much more fucked up could life  _get_  in here? If Peter let that be between them, then he was sure he'd find out. Or he could accept this and if he didn't want it again, he could say so – and a lot more firmly next time. Because he  _had_  wanted it, physically at least. He wasn't sure about the rest. The situation was so screwed up already, Peter was so desperate (and so was Sylar), so alone … and even if Sylar was a killer who promised to do better and Peter didn't really believe him … but he was still human and he was still a warm body, a handsome face, a gentle touch, a funny smile the few times he'd seen it …

Peter reached up just as Sylar began to pull away and tugged him firmly back, bringing Sylar's face to his own and kissing him intently. Sylar stared at him in uncertainty and confusion, then he shut his eyes and started moving his hips again. He wasn't going to question it. If Peter was going to give him this, he goddamn well wasn't going to question it. And Peter wasn't going to give halfway. He wrapped his legs around Sylar's waist and pulled him hard against himself, giving the man pressure and friction. He ran one hand into Sylar's hair, eliciting a desperate groan, a wanton plea for more and Sylar moved faster against him in response to that touch.

Peter plunged his tongue into the other man's mouth and he could see Sylar was coming undone. He was shaking and somewhere in there, as the trembling became more pronounced, he came, but Peter wasn't sure when it was, exactly. Sylar pulled his mouth free and with every panting breath he whined, breathing hard against Peter's cheek. His face was wet. Now that they'd parted, Peter tasted the salt on his lips. He moved his arms to curl around Sylar as the taller man's shudders turned briefly to wracking sobs, then subsided. Peter let his hands smooth up and down the other man's back and began to mutter soothing nonsense, just words to fill the silence.

Things had changed.


	2. Starry Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My enormous thanks to means2bhuman for beta reading this several times.

After Sylar's breathing slowed back to normal, he pulled back. Peter could see the man looking at him in the gloom, probably unsure of where he stood. Peter expected him to roll away and leave – a sort of 'get off and get off.' Instead he seemed reluctant. Sylar leaned in hesitantly as if to kiss him, clearly and literally holding his breath. Peter met him immediately. He told himself he was giving reassurance, that Sylar had to be questioning himself after the dubious nature of the consent given (or rather, specifically  _not_  given). Peter was certainly questioning himself.  _Why am I kissing him again?_  The feel of Sylar's breath on his face was a narcotic.

Sylar sagged against him with that kiss, relaxing suddenly and even though the weight was heavy, for that moment Peter welcomed the contact and the feel of another body pressed against his. He'd been so long without even basic affection - saying no was not an option. Then Sylar shifted to hold himself up and a second later he did climb off, but stayed crouched near Peter's head, bending over to keep giving him a broken stream of kisses.

 _If this is his way of apologizing, it only underscores that he knows he fucked up._ "It's okay, it's okay," Peter said, finding the strength finally to push him away. His head was spinning a little, his body singing, his lips tingling.

Sylar fell back and flopped on his side of the blanket. He looked up at the sky. Peter followed his gaze and for a while, they lay there silently. Peter licked his lips slowly, concealed by the darkness. There was a taste on them that was not his own. He wanted more of it - he'd had that first free dose of the drug. He looked at Sylar out of the corner of his eye, then shut his eyes. He didn't know what he wanted. Or rather, he knew  _ **exactly**_  what he wanted, and he didn't want to want it.

Peter struggled with himself. He'd seen no other human face for nearly three years. They'd argued; they'd made up; they'd shared things about themselves that they'd told no other person living or dead; they'd hurt each other; they'd tended one another's hurts; they'd shared food and resources and entertained one another (although often as not at the expense of the other); hell they'd even sang songs together. Sylar was still, however, the man who had killed Nathan and so many others. He hadn't taken no for an answer and that fit with everything Peter knew of him - he took advantage; he didn't respect people; he didn't treat them as subjects, but rather as objects - of his affection or his attention. Peter felt like he'd been used.

Eventually Sylar coughed a little and said, "Um. I have some ice cream sandwiches downstairs." Peter looked at him. "Do you want one?"

"Sure," Peter answered, pulling himself together. If Sylar could act like everything was normal, then so could Peter. "How about I come down with you?"

"Sure. Yeah. Um. Yeah. Guess we've … ah, seen all there is to see here." Sylar had a rictus grin born of nerves.

Peter got to his feet and together they gathered up the blanket. Sylar was still giving him an uncertain look, caught between timid and exultant. Peter told him, "Hey, just relax, okay?"

"You're not mad?" Sylar blurted out.

"No, I'm not mad. I don't know what I am." They shook the blanket before starting to fold it between them.

"But you're something?"

"Yes, I'm something. Did you think that was going to happen and I wouldn't feel anything?" Peter watched the other man's face carefully, trying to divine if Sylar had any understanding of what he'd done.

The other man's mood darkened and he looked down sullenly. "No, of course not." They finished folding up the quilt and Peter took it.

Peter nodded. "Give me a little while to process."

"Okay," Sylar said faintly. He started to step closer to give Peter a kiss, but Peter extended the hand that held the blanket and blocked him, still holding the quilt. Its bulk enhanced the barrier between them and delivered a clear message:  _Stay back_. Sylar's eyes jumped from the blanket to Peter's face, back and forth.

Peter dropped his hand, tucking the blanket up under his arm again. "No." This time it was firm and unequivocal. He could have slugged Sylar and affected him less (in fact, he had done just that in times past). The hurt and sense of betrayal from the other man was palpable. Peter sighed.  _I have a right to say no, Sylar. You have to understand that._  This was going to be difficult. He took control of the situation. "Come on. Show me where you stashed the ice cream."

Sylar nodded numbly and preceded him down the stairs. Peter tossed the blanket on a chair in Sylar's apartment, then went to the bathroom to make an effort at cleaning himself. When he was done, he stared into the mirror.  _I just let the man who killed my brother get me off. What the hell happened? Does it matter? How starved am I that I'm accepting his advances? Do I really want him, or am I just desperate and lonely? Is it fair to either of us if that's all it is?_ He didn't have any answers. When he came out, Sylar handed him a wrapped dessert. They sat together at the table. Peter was lost in thought, keeping his eyes downcast.

"So, um," Sylar said, "What do you think you're going to do tomorrow?"

Peter glanced up at him and decided to follow Sylar's lead in acting like nothing had changed. "Same old, same old."

"More hammering?" He didn't need to ask, but making conversation was one of the things Sylar did. Surprisingly, he was the more talkative of the two.

"Yep." Peter smiled a little. "One of these days it'll come down."

Sylar smirked at what was, by now, a very old joke between them. "One of these days, huh?"

Peter warmed to it, familiar with the pattern. "Oh yeah. Pretty soon, I'm sure."

"Uh-huh."

Peter leaned forward conspiratorially. "Why, just the other day, I could swear … I saw another bit of masonry fall off."

"You don't say?"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure. You ought to come down and watch more often. Maybe you'd see something like that."

Sylar glanced off to the side, his voice deepening with emotion to something closer to a purr. "Maybe I will. I happened to enjoy what I saw there the other day, when you took your shirt off," he looked back, eyes unusually intent.

Peter took a deep, uneven breath and suddenly found the rest of his ice cream sandwich fascinating to examine.  _I've been leading him on. I've been flirting with him. Did I really expect he wouldn't take that as an invitation? Wasn't that_ _ **exactly**_ _what it was?_  He popped the last bit in his mouth. "Yeah. Well. I'll see you there then." He stood up and headed out, trying to act like nothing at all was different when they both knew it was.

* * *

In the morning, there was Sylar, already awaiting him at the Wall. He wasn't a stranger to it by any means, but the partnership in trying to bring it down was somewhat one-sided. He'd taken up the hammer initially, promising to help, and swung it for a few days. When the existence of the Wall proved to be one of the many things that didn't change in this nightmare world, Sylar had quit and urged Peter to do the same. The former killer became depressed and sulky when Peter did not, but eventually he'd returned, being grudgingly supportive.

These days, Sylar occasionally devoted some interest to it, when his other projects bored him, or when he had a new idea. He'd bring out a chisel or a rock hammer or a cordless drill or some other possible solution. He experimented, unbothered when his plans failed, because he never expected them to succeed. More and more, Sylar just leaned against it and talked while Peter hammered. It was, at times, profoundly annoying, but Peter thought that about Sylar under the best of circumstances.

Peter went to pick up the sledge, as usual, but Sylar hurried to cut him off. The empath hesitated.

"Peter!" Sylar stepped closer, closer than he needed to be by far. Peter leaned away, but didn't step back. "About last night …" Sylar reached out to take his shoulder. Peter's look was questioning, but he didn't shrug him off. They touched each other so rarely. The contact sent a shiver through him. Whatever Sylar had intended to say got aborted with Peter's reaction and he leaned in suddenly to kiss him.

The Italian jerked back. "No!" He pulled his shoulder free of Sylar's grip, fists balled, fighting his own reaction as much as the other man. Sylar swayed back, having been on the receiving end of those fists enough to not want to be again, yet unwilling to actually retreat. Peter, similarly, was not about to back down. He shoved Sylar away though and Sylar let him.

"So that's how it is, huh?" the taller man snarled.

After a beat, Peter responded emphatically, " _ **Yes**_ , that's how it is. How I feel about things  _matters_."

"You liked it last night," he said in his most scathing tone.

 _Like_ _ **that's**_ _going to get you anywhere_ , Peter thought. "This isn't last night."

Sylar's eyes measured off the distance between them. Two arm's lengths and that was all. If he reached out to touch, and Peter did the same, their fingertips would meet. He frowned. Peter watched him steadily, waiting.

"By the light of day you change your mind, is that it? I'm okay for a quickie in the dark, when you can convince yourself I'm someone else?"

"Sylar," Peter said softly, "don't." He'd never lost track of who he was with – not last night, not now.

The other man turned and strode away, anger rapidly bleeding into another emotion as he jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Peter took up the hammer, feeling that familiar desire and ignoring it as always. He had more than his usual share of frustrations to vent on the wall.

* * *

Lunchtime came and passed. Peter continued working. Clouds rolled in; rain began. He stopped, put away the tools and stomped off to his apartment. He  _could_  work in the rain, but the handle became slippery and his blows less true. He'd broken a sledge hammer before that way and bruised his arm really badly. It rained all night and the next morning. He knew what it meant – the rain. Sylar was upset, more sad than angry, if the relative absence of thunder and lightning meant anything.

Peter passed the time picking at his guitar. He supposed he could have gone across the street and played at the piano in the next building over, but he was reluctant. He didn't want to have another altercation with his sole partner in this world. They tended to stay away from one another's residences unless invited – not that this was any sort of hard rule, but Peter expected he would be unapproached if he stayed inside and he was right.

It rained through the night and much of the next morning, finally clearing off around mid-day. Peter had a few other projects to putter around with though. Despite Sylar's allegations, he  _did_  have hobbies outside of hitting things. The next morning though, he was back at it. He wanted  _ **out**_  with a little more fervor than usual.

Sylar showed up minutes after he'd begun, undoubtedly summoned by the noise. Peter glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and kept swinging. Sylar stood back at a distance, but off to the side where he could be seen - where it was clear he wasn't trying to hide. He stood there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, but his posture was straight and stiff. His expression was angry. Minutes passed, marked solely by the dull thud of hammer on brick. Finally Sylar walked over to the wall and pushed on it as he sometimes did. He put his hands back in his pockets and turned to lean his back against it. He stared off down the street.

Peter kept up a steady beat. It seemed like a half hour went by. Sylar shifted closer a few times, ending up only a dozen feet away - where he usually stayed if he wanted to talk at Peter while the other worked. There were no flying chips or debris to be avoided, so the only danger was getting hit with the hammer itself. That had never happened. Sylar didn't speak. Instead, his eyes flitted to Peter a half dozen times, always glancing away when Peter would look back. Then finally, they didn't look away. He wasn't looking at Peter's face.

The Italian's grip slipped and shifted on the sledge hammer and he nearly lost the damn thing altogether. It hit clumsily, jarring his arm all the way up to the shoulder. He tightened his grip and started anew. He glanced over. Sylar was still checking him out and being blatant about it. Goosebumps rose on Peter's skin and other parts of his body roused as well. Sylar was coveting, letting his eyes run up and down Peter's form, admiring the play of his muscles and how his slightly sweat-stained t-shirt clung to his chest, how his jeans sheathed his legs. He undressed Peter with his eyes, his imagination obviously removing minor obstructions like clothes. Peter's mouth was dry; his breathing sped up. Sylar stood there only a few yards away and lusted after him openly. The empath felt every twitch of those eyes on him, every shift of his head as he followed Peter's motions.

Peter's lips parted, sucking in air. His hands clenched around the handle of the tool. He swung harder and faster, trying to pretend there was no one else there … it was only him, alone, hitting the wall as hard as he could, making the blood surge in his body, sweat bead up and dribble down.  _Alone. By myself._  Every hair on his body was trying to stand up. He felt like there was a subtle hum of electricity buzzing through him. He felt  _high_.

He worked until his muscles ached and he could feel the beginning of tremors. A fantasy ran through his mind despite his attempts not to think about it: he'd work until he collapsed, then Sylar would take him and he'd be too weak to fight him off. Peter shook his head, teeth clenched, but rather than slow down and adopt a more reasonable pattern, he stepped it up, grunting with the exertion, as if he  _wanted_  to make that fantasy a reality. Even though he'd swung this hammer for hours and hours, day after day, today he put on a blazing pace that wore himself out. He hit with everything he had, every time, time after time, putting his whole body into the effort. Just when he thought he wouldn't be able to go any longer, the other man shoved off from the wall and … walked away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Peter stopped. He put his forearm on the wall and let the hammer fall to the ground. His hands shook and his vision shimmered. His knees were weak. He panted, wrung out, even though his whole body tingled on the edge of release. He had never been so turned on by so little in his life.

He brought up a trembling hand to his groin. It felt tight and hot and straining. All he did was press his hand to it and he came. He groaned and collapsed to his knees, both hands on the wall, head hanging. " _Oh… fuck me,_ " he breathed out. If Sylar had been there it would have been an invitation. Peter would have let him do anything to him without a peep of resistance. No, he would have  _offered_. Still breathing hard, he looked over his shoulder … but no. He was alone. He turned back and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the rough brick.


	3. Per Ardua Ad Astra

Peter knelt in front of the wall, his palms against it, sagging. His fingers curled slowly, digging into the spaces between the brick. Under one finger, a tiny bit of masonry crumbled, broke off, and embedded itself beneath his nail. He pulled that hand back very carefully, flexing his finger slowly, turning it to look. Yep. Definitely a piece of masonry – not a piece of mud or dirt splashed up on the wall. He pressed on the pad of his finger, freeing the pebble, and rolled it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger.

Sylar didn't believe Peter's claims and so they'd made a joke about it, between them. Peter flicked the concretion away and leaned forward to pick at the same spot, trying to loosen the rest of the material. It was as firm and solid as ever. If he couldn't budge it with a sledgehammer, then his fingernails weren't going to have any better luck. But every now and then, a bit came off. What was it he was doing during these times? Getting ogled by Sylar and jizzing in his pants were hardly common factors.

He dragged himself to his feet and headed home, quitting early for the day. He was pretty sure he'd pulled a few muscles there anyway, with that final exertion. He took a cold shower. It felt particularly good. He'd been overheated. He leaned against the cool tile and tried to sort out how he felt. It was no good. He knew what he wanted and his gut gave him butterflies every time he thought about his other companion here. Obviously Sylar wanted him. And Peter wanted him back. Why can't it be that simple? Oh yeah, killer, Nathan, Claire, everyone else … and when we get out of here … I'm not getting into a relationship just to end it. I'm not going to fuck him if it doesn't mean anything!

He growled at himself and put his fist against the tile, jaw working. He didn't dare punch it. He'd broken his hand once before and it had taken weeks to heal. Besides, this was his shower. He'd have to fix it – he'd never done tile work and he doubted Sylar had any secret proficiency in it either. So he settled for imagining it and left it at that. One thing the unmovable brick wall that obstructed their escape was good for was venting his frustrations.

The next morning he was jumpy, turning at every sound, expecting Sylar to be along at any moment after he started. It took more like an hour. Peter didn't know for sure, because his watch had been stopped the entire time he'd been here. He'd rebuffed Sylar's early offers to fix it and eventually the man had stopped asking. It seemed like an hour though, and it wasn't like time really mattered here anyway. Sylar stood at a distance again, watching him impersonally, hands in pockets but standing in an otherwise normal, unemotional posture. Peter turned to face him, holding the hammer at the ready across the front of his body. As if his posture alone might not be enough of a statement, Peter glowered.

Sylar took the hint. He turned and walked away. Peter breathed a deep sigh of relief. He didn't think he could have stood a repeat of yesterday. He shook his head and returned to his work.

Hours later, Sylar returned, carrying a tray. He set it on the loading dock next to the bottles of water. He wasn't lurking at a distance, so Peter just glanced over and kept going. Bringing him lunch was an occasional treat, not so rare to be worth remarking on, but it was always appreciated. Given the circumstances, it seemed like a peace offering.

When Peter just kept working at the wall, Sylar came over closer to him, well within his field of vision. "I brought lunch. You want to join me?"

Peter grunted and kept swinging. He had so many complicated feelings about this that he just kept doing what he'd been doing, hoping something would happen or occur to him that would suddenly decide things. He was stalling because he was afraid.

Sylar watched the hammer blows for a few beats, then added, "I … I made one of your favorites – grilled cheese and tomato-"

Peter stopped and turned towards him, choking up his grip on the hammer and holding it in one hand. He motioned up and down with the head of the hammer in an uneasy, aggressive gesture. Having swung this tool for months now, nearly every day, he could easily wield it one handedly, though there was no reason to do so unless he just wanted his other hand free … maybe to grab his target and hold them in position to be bludgeoned.

Sylar looked at that movement and put his hands in his pockets, being as inoffensive as possible. He looked at turns apologetic and angry. Peter looked over at the tray of food, shifting the hammer up and chewing at the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry," Sylar blurted out.

Peter's mouth opened and then shut abruptly. He looked intently at the man. "Are you really?"

"Yes, Peter, I am!" Sylar answered angrily, teeth clenched.

"Do you even know why?" he asked, voice softer.

"No, I don't! I'm tired of playing this stupid game with you!" Now he pulled his hands out to gesture outward in frustration.

This stupid game, Peter thought, really looking at Sylar for a moment. Peter shut his eyes after that, then looked at the sky. You're right - nothing changes. They'd gone round and round half a year ago about why and if Sylar should be sorry about the people he'd killed. Not Nathan in particular – just anyone. He could say the words, but they didn't mean anything. He didn't really understand that he'd done anything wrong. Yes, Sylar admitted that what he'd done was pretty universally seen as wrong and Peter gave him props for being honest at least. Sylar also admitted he would have rather they hadn't died – because it was inconvenient and had repercussions he didn't want to deal with. But if he was back in the same position all over again, he wouldn't have done anything different. If it were exactly the same situation, Sylar couldn't see how he'd possibly make different decisions. Because Sylar had not changed.

Peter looked over at the tray with lunch. He wanted to go hit it with the hammer, knock it off, smash it, and spray food everywhere. That was juvenile. He didn't do it. He looked down, letting his shoulders sag a little in defeat.

"I'm sorry you're angry," Sylar said quietly. Peter looked back at him, eyes intent, but the other man was looking down now. "I wish you weren't angry with me."

Again – as moved as Peter was by those words, it was that the consequences were undesired, and Sylar saw nothing wrong with the act itself. Peter stared at him, at the top of the man's head. His heart lurched. He wanted to go put his hand on that cheek, lift the man's head and tell him everything was forgiven, everything was alright. But it wasn't.

"P-" Sylar's jaw worked, then he swallowed and looked up, meeting his eyes. "Please. Eat lunch with me."

Peter let out his breath. Sylar was right - it had become a stupid game where Sylar asked for a do-over without any intention of playing differently and Peter refused to grant it. It was pointless, like beating on a brick wall that never yielded. He had to do something different - and if Sylar wasn't going to change, then Peter would.

Peter nodded and let the head of the hammer slip to the ground, leaning the handle against the wall. He didn't miss the surprised joy that flitted across Sylar's face, nor did he begrudge it. If anything, that look made Peter want to kiss him all over again (not that he needed much to want to do that - knowing for sure that the other man was receptive had opened all kinds of floodgates for Peter, and it took a distressing amount of self-control to act normal).

He hopped up on the loading dock on one side of the tray. Sylar drew himself up on the other. One bowl of soup also had a dollop of cottage cheese in it - just as he liked it. Peter smiled. "Thanks," he said shyly. "You're a really good cook."

"Peter, it's grilled cheese and soup out of a can. Even you can make this stuff. And you have."

Peter shrugged. "I didn't have to make this. Thank you," he said very sincerely. There was another flash of elation on his partner's face. Peter smiled a little to himself and picked up the bowl and spoon, tasting it. It was perfect - a little cool, but that was to be expected if you carried it from the apartment to here. For a while, they ate quietly.

Peter looked directly across the alley at the building that delimited the other side. There was a ragged hole punched through it, victim of Sylar's rage after his last sincere attempt to get through the wall. The man had tried his hardest, yet not a single brick had fractured, not a crumb of masonry had been displaced. Eventually, in wrath and frustration, the tall man had turned his sledgehammer on the building nearby, which proved to have no magical resistance to damage. Nothing in this world was as stalwart as the wall itself.

Sylar had tried, the best he knew how. He was trying now. The wall might be resolute and unmoved by Sylar's attempts, but Peter wasn't and Sylar was hammering away at the walls around his heart right now. Peter was more like the building opposite than the barrier across the alley. Sylar was getting through.

The empath looked over at his companion, then glanced up and down his body, checking him out very briefly at a point when the other man was looking back. Peter gave him a little smile to say he liked what he saw. He was flirting - yes. Maybe he'd go to hell for it. Maybe he'd trigger something he didn't want. But what he wanted to do was flirt, have it returned, and work from there in a more normal manner than this uncommunicative, semi-masturbatory humping they'd done a few nights before.

Sylar smiled slowly, swallowed and shifted where he sat. That response made Peter very happy. Sylar reached down and snagged his sandwich, asking, "Why are you angry at me, Peter?"

"I said no."

Sylar glared at him. "Yes, you did. I heard you. I didn't care. I should have. I should now, but I don't."

Peter blinked at him, not sure what to do with that admission.

Sylar went on, "This isn't about what I did. It's about you. Do you want me or not?"

Peter felt like he'd been slapped. The truth was that his reluctance had nothing to do with Sylar's behavior and everything to do with Peter's own reaction to it. He hadn't seen that until now. His breathing sped up and he blinked uneasily, looking away and then back at Sylar's intent, dark eyes - such beautiful eyes. He stared into them, letting himself lose himself in them, thinking of how Sylar had felt in his arms, against him, when they'd been on top of the building. He ached to hold him again.

"Peter?" Sylar asked questioningly, his voice uncertain and vulnerable under the pretense of bluffness.

Peter heard the insecurity. "Yes, I want you."

Sylar let out a breath slowly, trying to be subtle about it. "Then …?"

Peter smiled. He felt the wall inside of him crumbling down. He put down the last quarter of his sandwich and took a drink. He swished for a moment. Sylar gave him a perplexed look. Peter turned and leaned over the tray towards the other man. "Come here?" he said softly, gesturing. Sylar leaned towards him slowly, eyes widening when he figured out what Peter meant to do. When he did, he closed the rest of the distance quickly and let their mouths meet like Peter was offering him something he needed for life itself. Sylar's lips were warm and tasted like the butter he'd used to fry the sandwiches, a little salty and absolutely delicious. Peter felt a rising coil of desire run through him at the intimate touch. He sucked at Sylar's lips each in turn, tasting his breath in his mouth and feeling the very tip of Sylar's tongue touching him tentatively.

A moment later Sylar started to scramble, pulling up his feet in preparation to stand, or crawl closer, or do something. While Peter understood the urge, it was too fast for him. His head was still awhirl trying to process the shift he'd felt inside.

Peter parted only an inch from him to shake his head and say, "No, no. Stay there. Just kiss me, please." Sylar's eyes darted between his. Peter added, "Kisses are good." Sylar nodded and settled back into place. The other man leaned in to lick Peter's lips and Peter parted them, accepting him and pressing forward to seal their mouths together. Sylar moaned in the back of his throat and Peter made a matching appreciative noise. A few moments later Peter drew back, panting. He bit his lower lip, staring at his companion.

Sylar looked like he was still strongly considering shoving that tray out of the way and getting a lot closer.

"We have all the time in the world here," Peter said softly. "Give me just a little more. I'm almost there."

Sylar took a deep breath and let it out. He looked away and nodded. Peter felt safe - maybe for the first time in years.


	4. Star Shine

After lunch, Peter took up the well-worn wooden handle of the hammer again. He was not surprised that Sylar hung around, but he didn't expect the other man to pick up one of the other tools and begin hammering next to him with unusual enthusiasm. It made Peter smile as warmth suffused his chest. He was pleased to see that Sylar wasn't leaving to sulk because Peter had put on the brakes for anything more than kisses. He looked over to see a similarly pleased expression on Sylar's face. The man had a lovely smile when he showed it and it thrilled Peter to see it now. Sylar's glee was infectious. Peter grinned wider, feeling butterflies in his stomach. Sylar's expression matched his, showing his even, white teeth in flashes between swings. Their eyes were more on one another than what they were doing, and when one swung a lever that ended with a twelve pound mass of metal, that wasn't very wise.

Peter struck the wall wrong, the face of the hammer hitting unevenly. The head bounced and the shaft twisted, jerking out of his hands and leaving him stumbling forward with his own momentum to very nearly face-plant against the brick. He managed to turn his body and take the fall on his shoulder instead, still hitting his head slightly over his ear. "Ow! Dammit!" It gave him a shock through his whole body and for a moment he saw stars.

"Are you alright?" Sylar had dropped his tool and watched, but didn't move closer.

Peter grimaced. He leaned on the wall, rolling so his shoulder blades were against it instead of his now-sore shoulder. He explored his scalp gingerly, but nothing was bleeding. He figured he'd have a knot though. "Yeah, I'm fine." He looked up at Sylar's expression of concern and started chuckling.

"What's so funny?" The man still looked very worried.

"I couldn't keep my eyes off you," Peter said sappily.

Sylar straightened and blushed, grinning too. "I think you might have hit your head too hard there, Peter," he said in a gentle tease. He reached out and put his hand on the wall, leaning against it and looking down shyly, moving one foot restlessly in an 'aw shucks' motion to scuff his toe across the ground. Suddenly his expression changed and he jerked his hand back from the brick, looking at his fingers.

Peter saw a handful of mortar granules fall to the ground. "What the hell?" Peter exclaimed. He'd only ever seen a speck or two at a time – tiny pebbles that amounted to almost nothing. Surprise flushed through him and his injuries were instantly forgotten.

"You weren't lying," Sylar said in wonder, looking at a couple granules still impressed into his hand. He reached up and picked at the wall, dislodging a handful more before they stopped loosening.

"I got a bit the other day, too," Peter said, gaping in amazement. "Just a tiny piece though, not a bunch like that. God, that was- I mean, it might not sound like much, but that was almost enough to fill a thimble." Eyes wide, he considered the barrier.  _It isn't just me. It's him too. He was happy. Was it that I was happy before? 'Happy' isn't really what I was feeling yesterday. But it's something like that. It's got to be. It's a mental thing. Or emotional. Concerned about me, maybe? Or rather, concerned about each other?_

Sylar was still scratching hopefully between other bricks, unable to displace anything else. "Maybe the bricks are weakened here?"

He took heart, confidence swelling in his chest. Perhaps the attempt to get out was not as hopeless as it had seemed. Peter's efforts at the wall had always been resolute and unflagging, but that didn't mean that despair and depression didn't have their hooks sunk firmly into him. Now Peter snatched up his hammer and gave it a quick once-over. Satisfied it was still in working condition, he jerked his head at Sylar to indicate for him to move and once he had, Peter swung. His heart soared. He could have swore the impact made a slightly different sound. Sylar apparently agreed, as he hefted his own tool and joined him. They spent the afternoon in effort and even though they had nothing tangible to show for it, they both had hope. Things were still changing and the world reflected that.

Sylar panted at the wall as Peter set their hammers out of the way at the end of the day. "Now I understand," the watchmaker said tiredly.

"Understand what?" Peter asked, voice dull after so long at such hard work.

"Why you've been able to live like a monk. You hit this thing all the time and before it was here you'd work out." Sylar shook his head slowly. "At the end of the day you don't have energy for anything else."

"I take days off," Peter said mildly. Sylar had it backwards. Peter had not lived like a monk because he was spending his energy on the wall. He'd been spending his energy on the wall because he refused to live any other way. Now, though, he'd given up that refusal. Hitting the wall this afternoon had given him a lot of time to think over what he wanted to do and living like a monk anymore wasn't it. "You want a kiss goodnight?"

"I want more than that," Sylar uttered with an attempt at a growl. He was obviously too spent to be much of a threat.

Peter chuckled. "A kiss is what you're going to get. I worked at this all morning too, remember?" He walked over and put his hand on Sylar's shoulder, feeling the fabric shift over firm muscle. It was nice in a deep and moving way to be able to walk over and touch another person familiarly like this. Peter had lived his whole life touching people whenever he wanted, but since he'd been here in this mental prison, he'd starved himself of it, too consumed by grief for Nathan and anger at Sylar to extend to the man anything that might be a comfort. But no more.

Sylar inhaled sharply and turned. After a moment of hesitation, he dipped his head and their lips met, soft and sweet and neither of them quite pushing for more. If Peter hadn't been so tired, he would have agreed to more right then and there. When their mouths parted, Peter stepped forward and embraced, curling his arms around Sylar's tall frame and turning his head to the side. The man was sweaty. It smelled good on him. It was honest and human. Something eased inside of Peter and clicked into place. He felt so much better.

"I could make you dinner," Sylar offered, his voice under Peter's ear a marked rumble. Sylar hugged him in return, his fingers exploring gently and hesitantly across Peter's back, glorying in the embrace.

"Thank you," Peter said wearily, "but no." He finally stepped back, reluctant to leave the delicious warmth of another body. He reached up to cup Sylar's cheek. The man inhaled and leaned into it, eyes watering. Peter smiled, thrilled at how every contact made Sylar respond. The man thirsted for this. He was desperate for it. Peter marveled at what strength of will lurked there that Sylar had wanted so badly, for so long, and managed to keep his hands off Peter until only recently. Peter kissed him again, chaste but lingering and pulled back. The empath had his own strength of will and he wasn't going to rush this any more than he had to. "Tomorrow," he said and turned and walked away.

* * *

Tomorrow was a bright, lovely day. The few fluffy clouds in the sky were so brilliantly white that they were almost painful to look at and seemed only there to set off the gorgeous azure hue of the heavens. There was a light breeze playing along the ground. Peter began his work as he did most days, but today he was grinning. The ringing of his hammer on the brick was the tolling of a bell to summon his companion. For the first time, he cared less about battering down the wall than making noise to bring Sylar out to play. He had a plan, Peter did. He'd had to occupy his mind with something the night before, since sleep was elusive and the emptiness of his bed was suddenly achingly obvious to him.

The sun was bright but not harsh and the oppressive heat of a few days before took on a whole new light. He'd known Sylar's moods affected the weather, but while he'd thought about that in terms of the rain, he hadn't considered that the heat, too, was a manifestation, as surely as today's fair weather was. As proof, Sylar arrived in a fantastic mood. He eyed Peter like he wanted to ask, or do, something. Peter raised an inquisitive brow at him, pausing in his work. Sylar changed his mind though and picked up a hammer. The man's smile faltered as he made a muffled groan.

"Sore?" Peter asked, taking the moment to watch how Sylar moved the tool and how his actions betrayed the cramps he surely felt.

"Just a little," Sylar tried to lie to him, fixing his expression from the grimace that had covered it only a second before.

 _Feeling the need to be a tough guy, huh?_  Peter chuckled and returned to his labor, letting Sylar win that one. He kept an eye on the other man though. Sylar's motions were tense and slow. He wasn't extending like he should, letting the momentum of the hammer head do most of the work for him. He was striking short, which gave him less control, would wear him out sooner, and was more dangerous. After a few minutes and seeing that Sylar was not self-correcting, Peter decided this was as good a time as any to put his plan into motion. He'd been thinking of waiting for their first break, but now was good. He put his sledgehammer down and said, "Hey, hey, hold up there."

Sylar complied, looking confused.

"You're going to hurt yourself." He walked behind Sylar and slid a hand up over the rounded curve of his shoulder, smiling again when he felt Sylar stand straighter under that touch. It was still so unusual between them, so new and Peter relished the opportunity to give something that was so wanted. "How sore are you?" he asked in a softer tone.

"I'm fine," Sylar said brusquely as Peter now stood directly behind him and curled his other hand over Sylar's other shoulder. The man turned his head a little to look back at Peter from the corner of his eye, like he didn't quite trust having Peter where he couldn't see him.

 _He always pretends he's fine,_  Peter thought.  _No matter what happens to him or how bad it is_. Sylar tended to take 'stoic' to really staggering levels. Peter rubbed lightly, feeling how tight the muscles were. Peter liked helping people and making them feel better. He tried to moderate his touch to do the most good. He felt the release that came as Sylar decided it was safe to let Peter be behind him with his hands near his neck, that there was no threat there, but only solace. It brought a peace to Peter as well to be accepted.

"Oh," Sylar said quietly, turning his head forward because he no longer needed to watch warily. "Oh, that's wonderful."

Peter felt him relax under his hands. He kneaded gently, feeling all sorts of things run through him. He was breathing deeper and so was Sylar. Years of being alone and never touching, never sharing pleasure or intimacy and now they were both getting so much so fast it made his head spin. 'Let me give you a massage' was a classic pickup line at parties, an excuse to get his hands all over a girl, or more rarely a guy, in a socially accepted way.

Peter smirked. He hardly needed to be socially acceptable here, but he hadn't wanted to rush over and jump Sylar as soon as the man showed up. A tiny bit more … patience was required to maintain his cool image.  _Yeah, right, because that's so important here_ , Peter thought sarcastically, but he'd done an embarrassing number of things here just because he didn't want Sylar to see him in an unfavorable light. The other man's regard meant more to him than Peter wanted to admit.

"Put your hands on the wall," Peter murmured. "Lean over a little. You're too tall for me."

Sylar complied with a brief glance back to acknowledge the statement. Peter tugged the man's shirt out of his pants and ran his hands up Sylar's back, earning him a surprised gasp followed by a faint whine. Oh yeah, things were moving way fast. He breathed harder and so did the man he was touching. This was going somewhere, they both knew it and neither was about to stop it.

Sylar's skin was warm and soft and smooth, not hairy like his chest. Peter had seen both at various times over the years trapped in the mental prison. He'd never seen Sylar naked, but he'd seen enough to know he had a fantastic body. He smiled at the memory of the very hottest days, that they'd spent at the pool. Sylar's eyes had been on him constantly and the heat just seemed to build steadily throughout the day.  _I am really, really slow sometimes,_  Peter thought to himself, now making the connection too between the heat of a few days before, when he'd been working at the wall and took his shirt off, showing himself off for his companion's perusal. Now Peter pushed Sylar's shirt up to see him better. He leaned over the man, rubbing his shoulders, looking down at that expanse of bare skin. He wanted to taste it. He could feel himself rising.  _Come on Peter, you're not in high school anymore. Be cool._

His hands worked their way down either side of the man's spine. "Does this feel good?" It sure did to Peter.

"Yes," Sylar said in a strangled tone, like he might come undone from this alone.

Peter grinned. He'd had a tiny bit of uncertainty there with how quiet Sylar was being. "Lean down a little more," he purred.

Sylar glanced back, perplexed again, and did. "Like this?"

 _At least I'm not the only one who's slow sometimes._ Sylar's ass stuck out as if in invitation. Peter moved against him as if on accident as he began to work his way up the man's back. "Oh yeah, just like that." He bumped his groin against him a second time. "Is this working for you?"

He knew Sylar had understood from the way he didn't even answer and just bobbed his head enthusiastically, pushing backwards into Peter so that the contact wasn't inadvertent anymore, but intentional and continuous.  _Oh yeah._  Peter's hands reached the man's shoulders and pulled him back, pressing into him firmly from behind. Sylar whimpered, open mouthed and spread his stance so they were more level with one another. Peter bit his lip and began grinding into him, slowly at first. Sylar pushed back, bracing himself against the wall as he shifted his hips to rub in something of a circle.

Peter's hardness pressed into the other man as his hands gripped his shoulders. He groaned softly. This was seriously doing it for him, bringing flashes to mind of Sylar on top of him on the roof, rutting against him. "Oh, wow."

"I want you to fuck me," Sylar said huskily, dropping one hand to his jeans and unfastening them while the other propped him against the wall.

"No lube," Peter said thickly, bringing himself back to the here and now with difficulty. He put his hands on either side of the man's perfect ass and pulled him harder into the thrusts, pushing up and down in the seam of his rump. The denim rubbed together roughly, giving him pressure and friction.

"I have spit," Sylar said, undeterred. He freed himself and was now shoving at his jeans, struggling and failing to get them down one-handedly. Peter was pushing into him too much for him to take his other hand from the wall.

"No condom," Peter pointed out, not helping with the removal of pants. They'd discussed sex a few times over the years. It had come up that Sylar didn't have much in the experience department and none with men. Peter had had the option, of course, of picking up lube or condom on the way here, but he'd decided against certain acts deliberately. If Sylar was a virgin, as far as anal was concerned, Peter didn't want to rush into that. There were plenty of other things they could do. Peter had started to  _care_  and he cared about hurting his companion.

Sylar made a frustrated growl. "Peter, you don't even think this is  _real!_  We're in a dream world as far as you're concerned. Why would you think you needed a condom  _here?_ "

"Because I might get cooties without one," Peter answered as though that were a perfectly rational reason. As well, he was concerned about the more pedestrian complications of anal sex, so unless his partner was experienced Peter was going to be wearing a glove anyway. It wasn't his  _real_  reason, but it was a turn-off he'd rather avoid.

Sylar choked, "Did you just say the word … cooties?"

"Might get Sylar cooties. Can't have that." Peter leaned over to kiss that tempting back. He'd been wanting to, and Sylar was starting to freeze up, probably confused at why he was being denied. Peter proved he wasn't reluctant to get close to him or to give him what he wanted. Reluctant - far from it. Peter eagerly covered Sylar's body with his own, grinding into him and letting a hand slip around the man's waist. He nudged Sylar's hand away from his jeans and reached further.

He found Sylar's shaft rock hard under a velvet skin, hanging out and bobbing with their motions. At his touch, Sylar sucked in air like he'd been drowning and any argument the man wanted to make about position or the exact form of sex they had vanished. The cock was hot in Peter's hand and slick at the top. Sylar whimpered on the exhale, putting both hands on the wall and panting hard. He gave himself over to Peter's ministrations and began to thrust involuntarily against Peter's hand.

"Oh-my-God-you're-touching-me," Sylar said, hunching into Peter's grip, letting it envelope him, sliding up and down his shaft, spreading precome across him and making him mewl, whine and shove into it harder. Peter made a tight ring with his thumb and forefinger, letting Sylar fuck his hand while he held his shoulder with the other, arching him slightly.

"Yes, that's what's happening," Peter remarked casually, pressing himself harder against Sylar's ass, partly for balance, but mostly to let Sylar's increasingly frantic motions do it for him. Every shift of Sylar's rear end against Peter's groin was like a shock. He wanted so badly to fuck him, or jerk himself off, or  _something_  to give himself more, but for now he stayed focused on his partner. He murmured words he thought Sylar wanted to hear, "I'm touching you. I'm with you. We're doing this. You're not alone. You're not going to  _be_  alone. I'm here with you. Come on - come for me. Come for me, buddy."

Sylar was as wild under him as he could be without bucking Peter off. The man braced against the wall, pushing back in hard jogs of his body and then thrusting forward into Peter's grip. He breathed noisily, punctuating his motions with wanton whines and hoarsely whispered appeals to divinity.

Peter saw the subtle flush spread across Sylar's back as the other man's motions became erratic and his breathing hitched. Sylar lost it with an unrestrained shout that echoed through the alley, spurting on the base of the wall. Peter leaned forward and chewed at his back, evoking another groan of complete ecstasy as the man arched more sharply under him, still struggling with ragged breaths. Recalling the sobs of emotional release Sylar had had before, Peter said soothingly, "It's okay. Easy. Take it easy. It's okay." Peter gave him a couple more slow jerks, pulling whimpers out of him along with lingering drops of come, but the man seemed to be getting himself back together. He loved the feel of Sylar softening in his hand and released him grudgingly, driven to it by his own overpowering need. He felt like he was about to burst.

Sylar straightened and turned, his shirt falling back down his body. He leaned against the wall, making a token effort at tucking himself back inside his underwear, but fixing his jeans was beyond him at the moment. His eyes were wide and his lips parted as he panted. Peter opened his own fly and pulled himself out. His shaft was as engorged as he'd ever seen it. He looked over Sylar's face several times as he stroked himself very gently, letting his eyes slide half shut.

Sylar stared at him as though fascinated to watch, but he made no indication that he'd take a turn on his knees. There was a moment where his eyes flicked uncertainly between Peter's dick and his face, a moment when Peter was sure Sylar knew a question was being asked and in that fraction of a second of awkward hesitation, Peter had his answer. He stepped closer to Sylar and asked for something he was surer Sylar was able to give. "Can you hold me? Kiss me?"

"Oh yes, oh yes," Sylar breathed enthusiastically - and perhaps a little relieved. They kissed, open mouthed, tongues exploring. Peter's hand continued to move on his shaft slowly and delicately, not giving himself quite enough to get off. Sylar brought a hand up uncertainly, as if not sure whether to offer to take over. He still wasn't sure what his role was in the dance. Peter turned his head and pressed more firmly against him, moaning and gripping harder, giving himself what he needed.

Apparently Sylar decided against joining in because he wrapped his arms instead around Peter's shoulders, drawing him into a tighter embrace, holding him within a circle of protective arms. He kissed the side of the empath's head, then his temple and forehead, one kiss after another that put Peter over the edge with a drawn out keen of pleasure. Peter shifting his hips so that he too marked the wall with his ejaculate, before turning and pressing himself harder against Sylar. He buried his face against the man's chest and neck, letting himself be held. He wanted him; he wanted  _this_ ; he wanted the post-orgasmic haze and the feeling of someone holding him, the musky, sweaty scent of their coupling and the feel of the sun hot on his back.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he murmured against Sylar's neck.


	5. Five Stars

"Cooties?" Sylar asked of him eventually, when their breathing slowed. Reservations showed clearly on his face.

Peter laughed a little. "Yeah, cooties." He stretched on his tiptoes for another kiss, which was granted with a gentle exhalation and a dip of Sylar's head. They exchanged a few quick smooches before the taller man pulled away, shaking his head.

"No. Wait. Cooties? Like I have  _germs?_ " He tilted his head to the side, which given the circumstances, was not a good expression. It tended to imply a dangerous level of interest in a subject, or possibly a dangerous response if the answer was wrong. "Or," he offered carefully as if this was a better alternative, "like perhaps you think I have them literally, as in lice?"

Peter snorted, unafraid. Sylar was just ridiculous sometimes. Peter had had plenty of experience fighting with him to know his signals. He reached up impulsively to bury his fingers in Sylar's hair. God, he'd wanted to do that for a long time, even if Sylar tensed against him and his eyes blazed - not good signs either, but well, what was the worst he might do? "You do not have lice. Or germs."

Slightly mollified, Sylar relaxed marginally as he considered. His hands moved up and down over Peter's hips as if he couldn't quite get enough of touching him. Angry or not, Sylar wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to get as much as he could. "Then what?" he demanded. "What did you mean by that?"

"I mean," Peter thought about it, picking his words carefully as his fingers continued to thread through the man's hair (because Sylar wasn't the only one who wasn't going to pass this up), "I want this to mean something."

Sylar's eyes drooped to half-mast as he leaned his head forward into Peter's ministrations. However drunk with sensation the contact was making him, though, it wasn't stopping him from thinking things through. He finally looked up threateningly from under his considerable brows to study Peter. "You do?" he asked, dubious and hopeful at the same time.

Peter let his hands slip down to cup either side of the man's face. "Yes, I do," he insisted, brows drawing together and down, his expression earnest and imploring.

It was too much. Sylar straightened, pulling away from Peter's hands, which fell to the watchmaker's chest to rest there, palms down. Sylar blinked and shifted uncomfortably against the wall. "What does it mean?" he asked in a voice laced with suspicion now.

"I don't know," Peter answered honestly. "But I'm not going to fuck you just to get off. Or just to get  _you_  off. That's why I … I told you before that I needed to a little while to process." Sylar looked baffled and disbelieving, every bit of his attention focused on Peter. No doubt he was parsing all the possible meanings of Peter's words, comparing them to actions and memories and other situations with other people. That last was where Peter knew it would fall down. Sylar had been betrayed too many times before and there was nothing Peter could do about that.

So Peter looked at his hands, fingers kind of stubby and the backs of his hands veined more than they should be. Beating on the wall all the time was taking something out of him and he felt it acutely when Sylar doubted him. He felt inadequate and flawed and not because of his hands - but more because of what his hands couldn't accomplish. The wall still stood. He couldn't fix Sylar's past, but maybe he could make the present a little better. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to explain myself better then, or how I was feeling. You'd think an empath would know these things – would … know myself better. I don't. And I hadn't decided yet."

"Had not decided what?" Sylar asked, his voice softer and deeper, with less of the threat it had held before. His hands crept to the small of Peter's back, holding him more firmly for the moment, even as his gaze continued to pore over Peter's face closely.

"Hadn't decided … it was okay to be with you." Peter pressed his fingertips more firmly against the other man, rubbing back and forth. Sylar's eyes had widened, but Peter rushed on nervously without giving the man time to react further. Peter needed to say this while he was still able, before his fears, or worse yet his pride, silenced his tongue. "Listen, I know that I've hurt you, rejected you … a lot, led you on, and that was wrong. Some of it was even cruel. I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have done it."

"Wait," Sylar said, shocked, "Are you … You're  _apologizing_? To  _me_?"

Peter gave him a quizzical look. "Yes." Why, did Sylar think it was impossible that people could do him wrong? That there was something about him that meant he was never due an apology, for anything?

Sylar looked floored, so perhaps that really was what he thought.

"I've," Peter swallowed, not too wild about admitting his own failings but feeling it was necessary, "treated you badly. The assaults, I … beat you up … more than I should have." That was sort of difficult to work out, because Sylar had started a lot of those fights, but Peter had a tendency to get carried away when he was winning and keep hitting beyond when he should have stopped.

"I deserved it!" Sylar squawked.

"No one deserves that," Peter said mildly, a wealth of emotion suppressed under that tone. They were touching on one of Peter's most deeply held principles.

Sylar brought his hands up to Peter's shoulders suddenly, gripping strangely close to his neck. "Are you lying to me? Is this a trick?" Now Peter was starting to see more danger signs on the man's face. He knew him well enough to see this was getting bad, as if the threat to throttle him wasn't clear.

 _Ah. He really is considering strangling me,_  Peter thought, but oddly he wasn't stressed by it. If Sylar chose to hurt him, it would only expiate some of Peter's guilt and it would hardly be the first time they'd brought violence to one another. "No, it's not a trick. I've been horrible to you and for that I'm sorry."

Penitence was a simple formula and every Catholic knew it: 1) recognize that you did something wrong, 2) confess it, 3) do what was necessary to make up for it, and 4) accept absolution. Another of the many things Peter had gone over the night before was what sort of relationship he could even have with Sylar. He'd thought about how he'd treated the man in the past and very little of it was admirable. It made him wonder what Sylar saw in him. He knew he'd done wrong - that was step one. Now he was admitting it - this was step two, and easier thought than said, but he was managing to get the words out anyway.

Sylar's eyes were boring into his, still holding the base of his neck. "Why would you apologize to me? I killed  _your brother_ ," he said, spitting out the worst for Peter's reaction.

 _Somehow I think that 'yeah, well, I killed him too' isn't going to work here_ , he thought sourly. "I know that. That," he exhaled deeply. "That has nothing … shouldn't have anything to do with whether I treat you right. It doesn't excuse me being a jerk."

"Yes it does!" Sylar's grip tightened a little and he gave Peter a single shake in angry exasperation.

Peter tried to stay relaxed. This was not the time to escalate things. They'd been having sex just moments before. That Sylar was being thrown for an emotional loop made sense.  _Too much, too fast. I knew that, but this has to be said._  Peter reached out and touched Sylar's sides gently, letting him feel him and feel that Peter was not responding to Sylar's threat of brutality with any of his own. "It  _explains_  it; it doesn't  _excuse_  it."

Sylar released him, shoving off the wall and moving past him. Peter was surprised he didn't go for the shoulder check, but Sylar stepped clear, snarling as he passed, "Two … whatever-the-fucks we just did and you're ready to say all is forgiven?"

 _ **No**_ _. I didn't say anything was forgiven_. But he didn't say that. He was trying to apologize and he wouldn't let Sylar derail it. He turned towards the other man, but Sylar was still facing away, having stopped a few paces off. Peter spoke to his back. "I said I was sorry for how I've treated you and I am. If I could apologize for how my family has treated you and everything they've had a hand in that's happened to you, I would. I apologize for my role in it."

" _ **APOLOGIZE?**_ " Sylar roared as he rounded on Peter, nostrils flaring in barely restrained fury, fists clenched. His voice echoed off the walls. " _ **Apologize?**_  What the  _ **fuck**_ , Peter?"

Peter looked down, swallowing and cringing a little in the face of the verbal assault, as well as the body language indicating an impending physical one. He stood still and quiet though for whatever venting or punishment Sylar wished to deal out. He needed to get out everything he wanted to say now, before he lost the opportunity. "I'm sorry. There were times I could have tried to help you. There were times I should have tried to reach out. There were times I should have been more accepting. I never was, to you, and I'm sorry for that."

"I was- I-" Sylar's capacity for words seemed to fail him in a throttled noise. He remained poised on the edge of an attack, a bomb waiting for the least wrong motion to set him off.

Into that silence, Peter looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and said, "I came here to use you, to manipulate you and I've never even offered you anything for your cooperation. Like I just wanted you to work for me for free, like I assumed you  _should_ , like I was entitled to your help because of what you'd done. I'm not entitled to  _anything_  from you. I was wrong. I  _regret_  it."

Sylar approached him suddenly, raising his hands in attack. Peter tensed and kept his own at his sides with an effort of will, lips pressing together and face tightening. At the last second, Sylar changed his mind, his fists opened and he grabbed Peter by the shoulders, slamming him back into the wall. He snarled into Peter's face, "And so that's it, huh? That's why you finally caved! You think I'll save your friends if you  _ **fuck**_  me? Is that how it works? You're going to whore yourself out to me for them?"

Peter was struggling to be calm and keep himself together, but the implication that he'd had sex with Sylar for ulterior motives rankled badly. But if it felt that way for him, Peter could only imagine how used Sylar felt. In a strained but firm voice, he said, "That has _absolutely_   _nothing_  to do with it."

"Then we're back to that stupid game of yours, Peter, but instead of me saying I'm sorry and you not buying it, it's the other way around." Sylar raised his brows briefly and bared his teeth in satisfaction and threat. "How do you like it now,  _Pete?_  Now that the tables are turned?" Sylar shoved him harder against the brick, head slightly turned, making a final attempt to incite. Peter winced at the bruising grip Sylar had on his shoulders. He brought his hands up to Sylar's elbows, but like before, all he did was touch soothingly. When the goading didn't get the violence Sylar wanted, the man's voice rose and he thundered, "Is it still  _fun_  for you?"

Peter shut his eyes, relaxed and played dead as much as possible. He made himself as completely vulnerable as he could because that was the only way he could back Sylar down. "It was never fun," he said quietly. "I am so sorry that I've hurt you. What can I do to show my sincerity?"

Unable to provoke Peter, Sylar was stymied on how to handle the issue. He looked confused, affronted and off-balance as his rage drained away. After a beat, Sylar released him and staggered away, looking shaken to the core. Peter opened his eyes now to watch him. No one had ever even  _tried_ to apologize to Sylar. Most hadn't gone so far as to admit they'd wronged him, much less say they were sorry about it. Sylar looked stunned as his world was turned upside down. He choked out, "Nothing. There's nothing you can do."

"Okay," Peter said simply, regarding Sylar with sadness. He felt a weight settle on his shoulders.  _Guilt_. It had to be nothing compared to the burden Sylar carried. Peter hoped that his gesture helped. Hope was all he had.

Another long moment passed. Sylar fastened his jeans, having been too emotionally moved to have noticed until now that his clothes were still in disarray. He shook his head wordlessly because he had no words to express the depths of his befuddlement at this turn of events, and walked away.

Peter watched him go.

* * *

The rest of Peter's day passed in solitude, punctuated by the ringing of hammer against brick. No one brought him lunch - not that he had expected it. If Sylar had showed up with food about now, Peter would have wondered if it was poisoned. Not seriously - but still. The man was angry and he had every right to be. Peter didn't begrudge him the emotion. Peter knew he had opened the floodgates by pointing out his own flaws and making it clear those were fair game. Every slight and wrong he'd ever committed was probably looming large and with Nathan's memories, Sylar had quite a list. Peter quit earlier than he usually did, having errands to run. He stopped by his place for a shower, then by the grocery store along the way. It was nearly dark by the time he stood outside of Sylar's door and rapped.

This was a discourtesy between them - to go directly to Sylar's door instead of waiting until the man was willing to see him. But after the intimacy of the morning, certain barriers didn't matter as much any more. He wasn't going to let Sylar stew, alone, if he could help it. The time to try to make amends was now, Peter knew. Some people needed space to process. For Sylar though, the passage of time heated him up in a slow boil, giving him time to plot and plan. It was better to confront it now.

It took a little while for the other man to respond. Peter had been considering what to do if he was refused - skulking back home seemed appropriate - when the door finally opened. Sylar looked at him guardedly, eyes lingering in curiosity on the paper sack Peter was holding in one arm. Finally Sylar's gaze went to his face and he asked with a put-upon tone, "What do you want?"

"I thought I'd make you dinner," Peter said contritely. He looked down at Sylar's shoes and shifted his weight back and forth nervously, thinking again that maybe this wasn't such a good idea and he should have just crept back to his own apartment until things had blown over. But they didn't blow over with Sylar - they just got worse, he reminded himself, so he tried to square his shoulders and face the man, managing to get his eyes up to the level of Sylar's chest.

Sylar eyed the sack again. "Why?"

"You've cooked for me a lot. I thought maybe …" he trailed off and looked to the side, making a vague gesture with his free hand. He gave a faint smile. "I'm sorry you're angry." He looked up at Sylar to see if the man understood what Peter was getting at. Softly he added, "I wish you weren't angry with me," giving back Sylar the same words he'd used on Peter just the day before.

Clearly Sylar caught it. He sagged a little in resignation and stepped out of the doorway, waving Peter inside. "Kitchen's yours," he mumbled. "I'll be … um … over here." Sylar went back to his work desk where he had the innards of a clock laid out.

Peter went in the kitchen and set to his self-appointed work in a grateful silence. He was a little surprised Sylar never even checked to see what was going on. Peter had expected an inquiry about what was being made and perhaps some scathing comments about his skill (or lack thereof) in cooking. He'd expected more engagement, more anger, and for Sylar to take the opportunity to chew his ass out. Instead, when Peter began setting the table, the other man packed away his tools and calmly came to help bring the food out.

"Spaghetti with red sauce?" Sylar asked in mild surprise, brows raised. They climbed higher as he looked at it more closely. "You put meat in it." It was the dish Sylar had listed as his favorite some time ago.

Peter shrugged. He'd used a jarred sauce so there was less chance of screwing it up. There was a reason why Sylar usually did the cooking, but Peter thought this had turned out okay. "It's for you. I was trying to make meatballs, but they sort of fell apart. It tastes good though."

"What did you put in the meatballs?" Sylar asked in a knee-jerk interrogation.

"Just hamburger meat." And a little salt, pepper and onion powder, but he wasn't sure those counted. Now, poisoning  _Sylar_  - that had passed through Peter's mind a few times over the years, but he'd no more acted on it than any of his other stupid fantasies.

"No binder?"

"What's that?" Peter had never heard of that ingredient. All he could think of though was a three-ring binder for papers.

Sylar stared at him for a long moment, then grinned suddenly and laughed. "Thank you, Peter. Thank you very much. I'm sure it tastes great."

"No, really. What's binder? Is it a spice?" He felt like a clueless dolt, but he didn't mind playing the idiot if it made Sylar laugh again like that - free and comfortable.

Sylar laughed harder. It was a lovely sound and not at all the bitter, hollow laugh he'd given for so long together here. "Peter, let's eat. Sit down."

It was a mystery that would go unsolved. Peter talked about the latest song he'd been trying to pick out on the guitar through memory; Sylar grudgingly opened up to tell him about the clock he'd been trying to fix with inadequate spare parts. After dinner, Sylar leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen, watching while Peter washed dishes. "You're being very solicitous," Sylar observed with reservation.

Peter sighed. He was kind of fucked either way here - if he stayed away and did nothing, Sylar would think he was right and the apology was just another ploy to manipulate him; if Peter tried to be nice, Sylar would  _still_  think he was trying to manipulate him … just a little more obviously. Hopefully honesty counted for something. "I'm trying to show you that I … liked what we were doing, when we were together this morning."

"You mean you're horny and you want to make out again," Sylar said dryly, blunt as ever as he obviously tried to work out Peter's angle with all this.

Peter smiled a little and went on washing. He thought his cards were pretty clearly on the table, but if Sylar wanted to check up Peter's sleeves for tricks, that was fine. "Yeah, I suppose so. I liked that - what we did. Maybe not tonight, you know, but sometime … when you want to."

"Why would I want to be with you, Peter?"

Peter felt a pang in his chest and ice in his gut. Just the day before, Sylar had pressed Peter to confess that Peter wanted him. Now, confession in hand and Peter's desire demonstrated, Sylar was threatening to withhold returning it. Or maybe he didn't feel anything in return and this was just another appetite to sate. Peter glanced over at Sylar, trying to judge how serious he was, then down at what he was doing when he couldn't tell right away. Peter tried to quell the feeling of hurt and rampant insecurity inside, saying bluffly, "Dunno. If you don't, then you don't. It's not a big deal."

"It's not, huh?" Sylar said with a sarcastic, I-don't-believe-you tone. "Good to know it's not a big deal and that you'd try to wine and dine me for  _nothing_."

Peter winced, but Sylar's words told him the man felt for him. Peter snapped back angrily, "Fine. Next time I'll bring you wine too. Do you like red or white?" Oh yes, they still bickered like an old married couple at times.

Sylar pushed off the doorframe and stalked over to him fast, fists balled. Peter looked up at him with slightly narrowed eyes because the motion had been too sudden; Sylar's motion read firmly as a threat. Peter set himself and grasped the handle of the skillet he'd been planning on cleaning last. Unlike earlier that day at the wall, he wasn't feeling inclined to take a beating - not if Sylar was going to pull shit on him like pretend he didn't want him now that he had Peter on the hook.

Sylar seemed to notice something of Peter's intention because he stopped abruptly, right outside that imaginary line of 'too close'. He looked away, then reached for the towel next to the sink and slowly collected one of the plates from the rack. He began to dry it, pretending that was all he'd been about all along. Peter relaxed and went back to what he was doing, allowing the pretense. "Thank you," he murmured, grateful both for the help and for Sylar's decision to back down.

For the next several dishes, they worked next to one another silently. Peter was scrubbing away at the skillet he'd used to brown the hamburger in (and accidentally left cooking while he mixed meat with sauce and then drained the pasta and only then turned to figure out what that burning smell was). Sylar finished drying and putting away the last dish. To Peter's surprise, the man sidled up even closer to him, bending to kiss his neck. Peter stopped immediately, gripping the edge of the sink, shutting his eyes and breathing harder, brain awhirl with how things had just flipped from tense and distant to oh-so-intimate with a single step and a press of lips.  _Oh please, please, please,_  he thought.

Sylar purred in his ear, "That pan will be much, much easier to clean if you'd just let it soak for a little while."

"Yeah?" Peter said breathily. "How long?"

"A half hour, maybe more - we'll just have to see." Sylar kissed his neck again and gave a gentle nip.

They found the bed fast.


	6. Stars Above

Peter turned to face Sylar, eyes taking in the other man's face so close to his own. The half-washed pan in the sink was forgotten.

"I have a bed," Sylar murmured, leaning in to kiss his lips. He was still a little hesitant about it, like he half-expected Peter to change his mind and punch him in the face for his temerity.

But Peter returned the kiss immediately, backing them both up towards the door out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sylar glanced around to see where they were moving, then grinned and went back to kissing with an intensity that burned all the way from Peter's lips to his groin. Sylar's breath was hot against Peter's cheek as the man's tongue plumbed Peter's mouth.

Peter carefully maneuvered them towards said bed, walking Sylar backwards slowly. He tried to steer around a chair near the workbench, but Sylar would have no detours. He reached back, grabbed the offending seat and shoved it out of the way impetuously without breaking lip-lock. Peter did though, laughing, because Sylar's insistence on a straight-line course was funny.

Sylar gripped Peter's shirt with both hands, spinning him suddenly and shoving him onto the bed with the same abandon that he'd used to get the furniture out of his way. It was a surprise and for a moment Peter went on the defensive. Sylar's expression was fierce - he would not be denied. He unfastened his own jeans and shoved them down, eyes never leaving Peter's face as he did it. After a moment to realize all was peaceable, Peter did the same, then followed it with his shirt. He still harbored a thread of uncertainty, having been jarringly reminded that this man he was getting in bed with was no stranger to handling people roughly. Sylar was capable of a lot. Peter didn't know his limits.

"I want to fuck you," Sylar stated as he climbed on the bed, forcing Peter to lie back and scoot further in as the watchmaker crawled over him, long arms supporting him above Peter.

Peter wriggled out from underneath the other man, not comfortable with letting Sylar set the pace here. He sat up and asserted, "I'd love to have sex with you. I'm not going to do anal tonight." For Peter this was a straightforward, meaningful pair of statements. For Sylar it was a flat contradiction as the two men were not working off the same definitions.

Sylar let Peter get away from him, but he glared balefully at him, trying to figure out what he meant. Clearly Peter was expressing reluctance. When Peter did not continue moving away, Sylar's features moderated to merely an intense look. "Does this have to do with the 'cooties'?"

 _The cooties_. Well. When Peter had first used the word, they'd been in the middle of sexing each other up and Peter hadn't wanted to interrupt things to discuss Sylar's experience, readiness and particularly, lack thereof for both. He still didn't know how to broach it in a manner that was sensitive, respectful and willing. Maybe he would have done better if they hadn't been in bed and about to pleasure each other, but they were, so he dodged it again and gave a simple, one word answer: "Yes." He reached out to stroke Sylar's cheek to reassure him.

The other man shifted so he was kneeling and reached out in turn, hand palm down. He ran his fingers into Peter's hair, starting at his forehead and going back until they were entirely buried in the longest part of Peter's hair - then he made a fist. A slight scowl appeared on his face.

 _What the hell?_  Peter tensed, swallowed and straightened. He was not getting away unless he was willing to lose some hair - a lot of hair - and getting away was the first place his mind raced to. He'd had some bad experiences in bed that involved being yanked around by his hair, primarily in a single incident that had gone from fun and sexy to assault in the course of seconds. It had been compounded by having a couple different guys after that use his hair to put his head where they wanted it. Sylar's expression was not angry or domineering, but Peter's eyes still flew wide and his breathing sped up.

Sylar's eyes narrowed slightly at the odd reaction. He gave Peter a very gentle shake. "You  _confound_  me, Peter Petrelli."

"I can explain-" His voice came out rushed and nervous.

"No," Sylar cut him off cold, regarding him with curiosity. "I think it's better as a mystery for now." The man leaned in, turning Peter's head and bringing him closer for another kiss, watching him all the while.

Sylar was not releasing him. Peter wasn't exactly panicking, but he wasn't happy. He reached up and tried to disentangle the man's fingers, which to his relief was allowed. He breathed deeper and pulled back, running his hand through his hair several times. Sylar reached out and took his chin for a moment, shifting Peter's head back and forth a little, studying him just as he had in Mohinder's apartment so long ago. That had been immediately before trying to cut Peter's head open. The empath did not like the observation or how the memory it evoked affected his currently jangled emotions. He shoved away the thought and took charge of the situation instead. "Let me give you a blow job." He did not ask it as a question.

Sylar stared at him for several long seconds as they held a subtle and silent contest over dominance. One brow quirked upward and Sylar finally said, "Okay," ceding to his companion. He glanced down Peter's body with a leer, reaching out to touch Peter's thigh. He traced the outer edge of the naked leg from hip to knee because he  _could_ , because the touch wasn't refused and things had changed enough between them that he could take some things without needing to ask. Ego salved, Sylar's expression was quickly overtaken by the beginnings of a dopey smile. He was about to get what he wanted here and he didn't have to be the one running to show to get it.

Peter slid off the bed to kneel next to it, knees on the rough nap of the short carpet. He took a few deep breaths, centering himself.  _What the hell am I even doing here?_  he thought.  _I'm about to get laid, that's what. Things are different now. Maybe he's different too._ When Sylar just looked at him, Peter patted the edge of the bed and said, "Scoot over here, buddy."

That got another shy smile and Peter felt his heart lurch. He was making someone happy - that made him happy. Sylar complied, pausing the action to run a speculative hand through Peter's hair once more, causing him to tense again. Sylar's oh-so-observant eyes caught the reaction. "That bothers you. You've been hurt before." And was that actual compassion he was hearing in Sylar's voice?

 _Hey, I'm supposed to be the empath here. Cut it out._  "Yeah." He didn't try to deny it. He'd been awful damn obvious. It didn't bother him to have his hair touched - far from it, he enjoyed that - but it made him tense not knowing how things would play out. He didn't trust Sylar yet and it showed in a lot of small ways.

"Sorry," Sylar said softly, dropping his hand to caress the side of Peter's face. Peter's eyes darted across Sylar's features, because there was something in the way the man had said that. It wasn't a throwaway; it wasn't just words. He need not have said anything at all, but he had. It was … genuine.

"It's okay," Peter answered in the same soft tone. He swallowed slowly and watched Sylar's face until the other man met his eyes and the walls came back up. Peter blinked and looked away, moving back to the matter at hand. Perhaps it would help if he gave some instruction on go/no-goes. "Don't hold my head while I'm doing this, okay? You can thrust, you can come in my mouth - that's fine - but let me steer."

Sylar only nodded, still caressing Peter's face. Peter had shaved before his shower so there wasn't much in the way of stubble. Sylar ran his fingers across Peter's lips at the end of his sentence. Peter opened his mouth for them, but the other man just ran them around the outside before moving his hands to the bed on either side. Sylar's cock was at half-mast, gradually growing as it became clearer Peter was going to deliver on his offer.

Peter spread Sylar's knees and settled between them. It occurred to him Sylar probably hadn't cleaned since the morning. Point it out? Interrupt? Given the man's reaction to the cooties comment, he didn't think that was a good idea. He could deal with some funk. This was the first time he'd really had a good look at the equipment. It was lovely - shapely, symmetrical and in feature similar to the rest of Sylar's body, built long and lean. Peter moved in, opening his mouth, only to have Sylar pull back a little and put a quick hand on Peter's forehead, stopping him.

Sylar looked apprehensive. "I'm … uh …" He looked between Peter's mouth and his own groin, where his body remained at attention. He put his hands back on the mattress on either side of him, gripping the edge of it hard.

Peter studied him, trying to guess the reason for the pause. "I know you've had a blow job before."

"One. Yeah. And …" he swallowed uneasily. "It … just … would be pretty easy for you to bite me."

Peter wanted to laugh at that because it was  _that_  ridiculous. He didn't though. He watched Sylar's expression, his own open and attentive, working it out in his head. They'd discussed Sylar's sole blow job and Sylar hadn't been bitten then, so …  _he doesn't trust me either_.

Peter sat up on his knees and leaned in for a hug, sliding his hands under Sylar's arms and nudging them. It prompted the man to release his vice-grip on the bed and after a momentary pause, to wrap his arms around Peter in turn. Peter simply embraced him until he felt the other man abruptly relax, at which point Peter turned his head and kissed, then chewed at the other man's chest through the shirt Sylar was still wearing. Peter pulled back and tugged it up. "Lose the shirt," he directed. "I've done this a few times. The consensus seems to be that I'm pretty good at it. I've never bitten anyone. Did I hurt you earlier today?"

"No." Sylar pulled off the shirt, then put his hands on Peter's shoulders. They curled around him to run across Peter's upper back.

Peter leaned up kissed Sylar's lips. "Not going to hurt you now." He settled back and kissed his chest, letting the man's wiry chest hair tickle his face. Peter tasted him, licking and working his way down towards Sylar's left nipple. Sylar breathed faster, his fingers pressing more firmly on Peter's back. Peter rolled his eyes up to see Sylar was watching his every move, an expression of wonder on his face. Peter licked the nipple before him, extending his tongue to flick it with just the tip, making a show of his action. Sylar groaned, responding strongly.

Peter grinned and moved to the other side, looking up before he did it and getting eye contact first.  _Trust me_ , he urged mentally and flicked that nipple too. Sylar's mouth was open now and he gave another vocal response. Peter blew on the nub, looking to see what he was doing, watching it contract. He sealed his lips over it, evoking an even louder call as Sylar's hands went to the back of his neck and head, clutching at him as he sucked and rolled the nipple without letting it touch his teeth.

When he pulled back, Sylar said breathily, "Okay, okay, I get the point. Go … go ahead. I won't stop you."

Peter began working his way down, letting his hands slowly slide down Sylar's sides while his mouth chewed and sucked and licked its way southward. When he arrived at Sylar's penis, it was completely erect, a bead of precome dribbling down the side. Peter shifted his body as low as he could get, tilting the man's shaft downward so Sylar could see what Peter was doing to him. He started off with a lick, tasting the salty precome. A strand of it connected his mouth to Sylar's dick, dangling between them. Peter rolled his eyes up to see he was being watched raptly. Sylar's hands were white-knuckled on the mattress again. Peter's rubbed back and forth across Sylar's thighs. He leaned in and licked again, letting his tongue explore the groove of the frenulum.

"Oh God yes," Sylar panted out. His cock twitched and bobbed. "Oh!" he said. "That was me." He sounded surprised by that.

Peter grinned lasciviously. Sylar was putty in his hands and Peter adored that. "Yeah, that was you. I'd like to put that thing in my mouth. Can I?" He gave him his most seductive smile and was rewarded with another twitch.

"Yes please," Sylar begged eagerly, scooting forward a little more and spreading his knees further to the sides. He opened himself to Peter's attentions now.

Peter sucked the head in slowly, looking up to watch Sylar's mouth fall open again and the man's eyes roll upward as he finally relaxed completely and gave himself over. Peter let his lips slide back and forth over the flaring ridge of the glans, accompanied now by whines and small bucks of the hips from his partner. He worked his tongue across the delicate underside. Sylar was as hard as he could be now, swollen and full. If Sylar's gasping and keening was any indication, he wasn't going to last long. Sylar scooted again, pushing abruptly deeper into Peter's mouth, nudging at the back of his throat. It was too fast and Peter choked for a moment. Rather than complain, he worked at relaxing his gag reflex and took it, bobbing his head now and breathing through his nose.

Sylar bit his lip and put his hands on Peter's shoulders, rubbing back and forth in a bit of unconscious synchronicity with the motions of Peter's head. "Oh … Oh God, oh God, oh God," Sylar repeated over and over, hands pressing harder. "Deeper … on me … oh God, oh yes. Yes. Yes … please? Yes. Oh!" The rubbing on Peter's shoulders shifted to being a grip, bruisingly hard, pulling him forward and forcing him to take Sylar all the way again.

Peter went with it, working his throat and pulling a guttural cry from his partner. He felt Sylar's muscles tighten, his thighs clench and his feet lift as his toes curled. Sylar shouted in exultation, hands suddenly pawing fitfully, not sure what to do with the surplus of sensation. Peter withdrew slowly, taking in a deep breath and then sucking the man the whole way.

Sylar whined and whimpered, "Oh God yes."

Peter looked up at him smugly. He liked giving head because of exactly this reaction. There was no other sex act where he got quite as much appreciation as this one or was in as much control of someone's responses. Sylar looked like he'd just had a religious epiphany, like he'd had his mind blown in addition to his cock. He gazed down at Peter with a gaze that looked downright worshipful. Sylar's eyes began to glisten and he tore them away, blinking. He flopped backwards on the bed, staring upward.

Peter's own erection was heavy between his legs, needful of stimulation. Peter then stroked himself lightly, but he didn't want to jerk himself off. He wanted to be touched for that. He climbed up on the bed and laid down on the other side.

Sylar straightened to be parallel to him, but as they ended up, his head was level with Peter's collarbone. He rolled on his side, looking Peter over with a vulnerable expression that oscillated between fear and anger. His lashes were wet and he kept blinking, eyes otherwise fixed on Peter, darting over his face and trying to read his body language.

There was nearly two feet between them, which was a preposterous distance, even though Peter had been the one to put it there. He wasn't sure what sort of aftercare Sylar would allow and it looked like Sylar, likewise, wasn't sure what he should do. He was waiting for Peter to signal that, still following his lead. So Peter raised his arm slightly and gestured. "Come here," he said very softly, almost a whisper, like he didn't want to spook his companion.

Sylar bit his lip and scooted closer, breathing harder again. Sex clearly really got the man's emotions running. Peter let his hand caress Sylar's shoulder and encouraged him to get even closer with a slight pressure. "Come on," Peter urged again and Sylar moved in all the way. He ducked his head and rested it against Peter's chest, curling submissively against him. Sylar breathed unevenly and sagged. Peter wrapped his arm around the man and tucked his face to rest his cheek on Sylar's head. They lay silently for many minutes as Peter pondered how much and how deeply the intimacy seemed to affect Sylar, and as Sylar relaxed in stages, letting the tension drain away.

After a while, the other man cleared his throat. "You smell good," Sylar observed, coughing a little and trying ineffectively to cover his sniffling and pass it off as 'sniffing' instead.

"I showered after working at the wall." Peter wouldn't deny he'd put on a little cologne too, which was probably what the man was noticing. Yeah, Sylar was right - he'd been horny and wanted to make out again. Speaking of which, he'd managed to lose his erection while Sylar had been cuddled up to him. Not that Peter wasn't thrilled with the contact, but his mind was more on caring for his partner than anticipating his turn at getting off.

"That's nice." Sylar kissed Peter's chest with a quick, tentative peck like he thought that might be off-limits. Peter's arms tightened around him supportively. "Do I …" Sylar took a deep breath and tried to square his shoulders. "Do I need to reciprocate now?"

"That's not how it works," Peter murmured, picking up on the reluctance. He reached up and stroked the back of Sylar's neck, feeling the short, soft hair between his fingers. Sylar was just a man. He was so heart-breakingly human at this moment that it made Peter's chest ache.

Brow furrowed, Sylar looked up at him, pulling back a little to do it. "How does it work then?"

Peter blinked in mild surprise. Sylar was still looking to him for guidance, which seemed bizarre given the way Peter had seen him for so long - remote, arrogant, condescending … in short, an asshole. But his defenses were down now and in reality he was as clueless as anyone else. Yes - so human. Peter told him, "If you don't like to do something, you don't have to do it."

Sylar mulled that over, coming to the wrong conclusion. "You don't like getting fucked?"

Peter gave a single laugh and leaned in to give Sylar a short smooch on the forehead. It got a reaction just like nearly every gesture of affection did. Sylar remained surprised to get kindness instead of reprobation. Peter said, "No, actually I love it. It's just that's not a beginner's move. You know how you were there about me putting my mouth on you?" Sylar nodded, listening to him attentively. "Well, I'd like to get a little more comfortable with each other before we start putting things inside one another. We could get hurt."  _ **I**_ _could get hurt - because I know I'm not going to hurt_ _ **you**_ _._ "You have to be pretty good at reading your partner for that to work right."

Sylar considered that, then apparently accepted it. He studied Peter's face for a moment more, then tightened his grip and made to embrace him. Peter smiled and reciprocated, as Sylar was clearly asking permission rather than just hugging him. Acceptance granted, Sylar snuggled back in against Peter's chest, taking comfort there. A few moments later, his hand skimmed down Peter's side, then dropped to Peter's groin, touching him.

"Whoa … oh … oh, yeah," Peter said encouragingly. Even though (and partly because) the contact was slight, he wanted to reinforce it.

Sylar gave Peter's chest another kiss before turning his head and repositioning himself somewhat so he could watch what he was doing. They lay on their sides facing one another. Sylar let his fingers tickle up Peter's cock. It was spongy at the moment. "You're … soft," Sylar whispered. "I've never touched a man … here."

Peter was silent, letting Sylar explore his body, offering himself up for it. Obviously Sylar had touched himself, but this was different. Peter certainly didn't mind being pleasantly molested. His penis was swelling.

Sylar continued, "I shape-shifted into people and … but this is different. You're someone else." He wrapped his hand around the stiffening member and squeezed lightly, then released and touched the tip with just his fingertips. "Does this feel good? Is this okay? Is there something I should be …?"

"This feels great," Peter murmured. "It feels wonderful. Totally okay." He freed the hand that was between himself and the bed, bringing it to Sylar's shoulder. He shifted his hips slightly and bent to put his forehead against the top of Sylar's head, smelling him with rapidly deepening breaths. This was so much better than being alone.

Sylar squeezed his tip. "Precome," he said in simple observation, like Peter's sexual reaction was a fascinating phenomenon. Peter felt Sylar smear the viscous fluid across him with one fingertip. Peter shifted his hips again in an instinctive response to the touch. Sylar asked, "Do you want something? You're restless."

"Jerk me off," Peter breathed. "Please?"

Sylar did not comply. He raised his hand to his mouth, dipping his head to conceal what he was doing. He was probably tasting; he might have wet his hand with spit; or maybe he did both. The kinkiness of that small, furtive motion gave Peter a thrill. A moment later Sylar's hand dropped back to Peter's rigid shaft, leaving a trail of wetness down the side. Peter tried to push into his hand, but there was nothing there because Sylar released him as soon as he moved. The man chuckled and Peter gave him a frustrated groan.

He didn't mind being toyed with like this. Sylar was into it - that was what mattered. The man glanced up at Peter, then sent his hand further down to fondle Peter's balls. The empath gave a gentle, "Ah …" in endorsement as Sylar rolled them in his hand. He then encircled them with thumb and forefinger, close to Peter's body, cutting them off. Sylar tightened his grip a little, compressing the delicate structures and lifting his head to watch Peter's response. Sylar's eyes narrowed just slightly and he pulled a tiny bit in threat of doing more.

"Please don't hurt me," Peter asked. He was not averse to a little pain, but he wanted to know someone better before getting into that sort of thing.

"Is that serious, or an invitation?" Sylar purred.

"Where my nuts are concerned, that's serious."  _Please don't do this_. He had enough issues to hurdle with Sylar. He didn't want to complicate things by not being sure if he was safe to allow the man to touch him freely.

Sylar released him immediately and turned to kiss him on the chest. Peter released the tense breath he hadn't realized he'd sucked in. "I want you to trust me," Sylar murmured.

"I do, I do," Peter responded quickly, trying to convince himself as much as Sylar.  _And that sort of gesture, letting me go when I ask it - that helps a lot._  It was back to the issue he'd had the day before, at lunch. He had to be able to say no and have it honored. With a normal partner, Peter wouldn't have cared so much, being prepared to roll with the punches, so to speak. But with Sylar … when and if they ever got out of here, Sylar's power to take what he wanted would be nearly unlimited. The only thing that would hold him back was conscience.

Sylar brushed Peter's cock with the back of his hand, giving him more tantalizing teasing, then stroked his fingertips up and down it without gripping. Peter groaned again, shifting, wanting more. He pressed his teeth to the side of Sylar's head and started working down towards his ear, mouthing messily through his hair. Sylar moved up a little to make that easier and finally gripped his shaft. Peter began moving his hips immediately, holding Sylar's shoulders. He licked across his ear and shifted downward so he could suck at the lobe. Sylar moaned and tightened his grip, pumping him faster.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah," Peter breathed into his ear and against his neck, pushing into him and feeling himself coming undone. "I love this. This is great." Peter dropped one hand to himself and Sylar stopped as soon as he did. "No, no," Peter said in a whine. "Please keep going. I'll just …" He didn't know how to describe it at the moment - his mind was a little blank of anything but the stimulation. Sylar started stroking him again up and down the shaft. Peter fondled and teased and pinched at the head of his cock, feeling himself spiraling back up to his peak. He panted into Sylar's ear and against his neck, hips flexing as he keened softly in passion. He felt the blazing heat of orgasm race through his veins, throbbing in his groin. As he clenched and came, Peter cupped his hand over himself, catching the ejaculate, hot and wet against his palm. He felt dazed and slumped against Sylar, letting the man support him.

Sylar shifted, turning Peter's hand and looking at it for a moment, puzzling over it. Finally he came to the right conclusion and said, "You did that so you wouldn't get anything on my bed, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Peter managed, still out of it.

Sylar turned and kissed Peter's cheek, pulling away slowly. "That's very considerate of you. Thank you."

"You sleep here. I shouldn't … I wouldn't mind sleeping here too, if I-" Peter cut himself off, having spoken without thinking.  _Oh God that's presumptuous!_  It was one thing to make a pass at someone when they'd shown they were interested. It was another to invite yourself over to sleep with them. They'd gotten each other off. For the vast majority of Peter's dalliances (and all of his homosexual ones), it was over now and he was expected to pack up and get out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" He struggled out of the bed, looking around for tissues or something to wipe his hand on. He semi-staggered towards the bathroom. Sylar sat up on the bed and watched him go.

"You didn't mean to what?" Sylar's voice called out with a strongly suspicious edge to it. If Peter could have seen his face he would have seen anger starting to boil up from the insecurity.

Peter washed his hand then bent to slurp some water out of the faucet and rinse his mouth a few times. It kept him from answering right away, so Sylar rose and came to the doorway, adjusting his expression to cautious and intent, giving Peter just a little benefit of doubt. Peter stood and looked at him. "I don't-"  _want to be alone. Want to be in my bed alone again, like last night and all the nights before, for what's felt like years now. I haven't been invited to stay with you. This was just a quick fuck. I have no idea what you really want out of me_. He stared at the floor, trying to sort out what to say.

"You don't want to stay," Sylar said then gave a curt nod, lips thinning. "It's okay," he said in a scathing tone from between clenched teeth, his nose wrinkling in disgust. His face made it clear this was so far from okay that not even Hiro could teleport to it from here.

"No! No!" Peter lifted his head and his hands, making a 'you've got it totally wrong' gesture. "I'm not going to- Christ. Yes, I want to stay with you! That's what I said before, in bed. It's just- Kind of fast, you know? I don't know what you  _want_. Maybe you'd rather I left. I can, if that's what you want. I don't want you to feel pressured."

"Pressured?" Sylar's voice sounded lost. He shook his head and glanced at the ceiling, relaxing a little from the tense stance he'd taken. He leaned on the frame of the bathroom door and raked his hair out of his face. "You are so confusing, Peter." He looked at Peter's earnest, frightened face. His brows drew together and he studied Peter as the empath stood there anxiously. Sylar tilted his head slowly and said, "You're afraid I'm going to kick you out, aren't you?" Peter blinked several times and looked away, giving a tiny, miserable nod. Sylar's voice deepened and firmed. "Peter Petrelli - stay with me tonight."

 _That's … oddly formal._  "It's okay?"

Sylar blinked twice. "Yes Peter. It's okay." He exhaled deeply, looking over Peter's face as the ghost of a smile made itself known on his own. Peter was not the only one taking notice of someone's humanity.

"I will," Peter nodded, looking up at him and giving him a lop-sided smile. "I'll stay. I'd like to stay. Just call me Peter, though, alright?"

"I can do that." Sylar hesitated for a long moment, then swallowed and said in a nervous tone, "You can call me Gabriel."

Peter gave him a single, deep nod, feeling a wash of warmth through him. He wondered what it meant that Sylar was dropping the name of the killer and taking up the name he'd been called most of his mundane life. The man had gone by that name too in the future, when he'd given up murder and mayhem as a way of life. It was the name of a different person - a better person, a person who wasn't a killer and was trying to be good and live up to the positive expectations of others. Peter realized he wasn't the only one who was changing. "Gabriel," he said softly.


	7. Gemini Rising

Peter woke early in a strange bed, with a strange man: Sylar. Or rather, this 'new' man named Gabriel, who was still discovering who he was and who he wanted to be. It wasn't quite dawn yet outside, but he could still see his companion in the gray light. Also, Gabriel snored. And the clocks ticked. The place was full of noise. If it wasn't the regular oscillation of Gabriel's growling purr of a snore (punctuated by the occasional higher pitched nasal whine), it was the chiming of one or another clock (or all of them) marking the passage of the hour, the half hour, the quarter hour and whatever other intervals the things went off on. Peter hadn't realized how silent his apartment was until he woke here, surrounded by a constant susurrus of noise. He wasn't sure if it was irritating or soothing yet. He wasn't sure of a lot of things.

He propped himself on his elbow and watched, studying the man's face. He ached to touch him – to run his fingers through his hair, trace the outline of his face, or explore the shape of his ear with his fingertips. All those would wake the man, so he kept his hands to himself. It was tough, though.  _If Sylar … Gabriel, whatever, could keep his hands off me this long, then I can do the same._ Of course Sylar hadn't had to watch Peter from little more than a foot away, seeing him oblivious and completely vulnerable. A sleeping Gabriel was a helpless victim just begging for Peter's 'help'. Surely a short caress wouldn't hurt anything. Surely Gabriel would appreciate a gentle touch. And yeah, he probably would, but not while he was  _asleep_. He was so defenseless right now. Peter sighed heavily.

Gabriel jumped at the unexpected puff of air, then a second time when he opened his eyes and caught sight of someone in bed with him - possibly the first time ever he had woke up with company. Peter held very still. Anger chased fear across Gabriel's face before settling into recognition a flash later. He was quick, that was for sure. His eyes took in Peter's complete wakefulness, still propped on his elbow with his free hand palm down on the bed between them, and the top of his bare chest showing above the sheet. Gabriel breathed out slowly and smiled like he couldn't believe his luck. "You're still here," he observed with what sounded like wonder.

"Yep," Peter replied with more confidence than he felt. He didn't know Gabriel all that well, nor did Gabriel know Peter, as his surprise upon waking demonstrated. There was so much that could so easily go wrong between them. "Not a dream," Peter confirmed, hoping to project assurance that all was good.

Gabriel glanced around the room, then back to Peter. His brows drew together and his voice took on a different inflection, this time questioning. "You're still here?"

Peter's brows rose as he guessed at what Gabriel meant - Gabriel's surprise was because Peter wasn't expected or desired here. "I can leave!" A feeling of cold washed over his skin at the idea he'd be  _that_  unwelcome.  _Shit. I'd rather have known that last night and left then!_ He swallowed and tossed the sheet off as he went to get up and get out. This was embarrassing. He didn't want to be where he wasn't wanted - that had happened so many times Peter had frankly lost count. His romantic life was a disappointing string of one-night-stands and short affairs. Sometimes he wondered if he went around with a 'dump me' sign on his back, because no more would he profess his feelings for someone than they'd be done with him.

"No!" Gabriel reached across the bed and grabbed his arm, pulling him back and spinning him around so they faced again. Peter hadn't expected it; he tumbled into Gabriel, ending up against him. For a good three seconds, both of them looked down at their sudden proximity, then into one another's faces, reading the reaction there. Gabriel was nervous and unsure - he hadn't intended to pull Peter almost on top of him; he'd overreacted. Peter was trying to figure out how much of his placement was an accident, but once he got over the surprise, he didn't mind where he was. Gabriel said, "Don't go, please." Peter hesitated, still stinging from the perceived rejection of a few moments before. Gabriel added softly, "I didn't mean it that way. I just didn't think you  _would_. Stay, that is."

Peter nodded, accepting that gladly. He settled back in, lying with only an inch or two between them. He gave a grateful smile, truly radiant. As soon as he was situated, Gabriel leaned in towards him, nearly closing the small distance and eying his lips, puckering his own. Peter grimaced and pulled back. "I haven't brushed."

The other man desisted with an intent, frowning look. He stared levelly at Peter for a moment, then rolled onto his back, staring upward with the same expression. After a moment he said, "I know you aren't a mysophobe. So why?" He looked back at Peter. "This is like the cooties, right?"

Peter sighed.  _Why is this so difficult?_  "I'm just trying to be considerate here, okay? I have not brushed my teeth – I'll taste nasty."

"Peter, a starving man isn't going to complain about the flavor."

"Let me at least go rinse, okay?" He started to get out of the bed, but paused and looked to Gabriel for his permission.

Gabriel rolled his eyes and gestured for Peter to get on with it, so Peter did exactly that. In the bathroom, he glanced at Gabriel's toothbrush, but using that would be even more presumptuous. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then used the facilities while he was there. Afterward he washed his hands, rinsed his mouth and spat again. He filled the glass from next to the sink and carried it out for his partner.

Gabriel took it from him, set it carefully on the nightstand without drinking from it, then grabbed Peter around the waist and drug him forcibly into the bed. Gabriel rolled over on top of him with a growl. He kissed Peter with urgency and insistence and yeah, Gabe didn't taste all that good. A moment later Peter wasn't really caring as Gabriel reached for him and grasped him in a firm, sure grip, staring into Peter's eyes, looking for reluctance or duplicity. Peter kissed him passionately instead.

They parted with a confused shifting of legs. Gabriel won his way with a half snarl and a glower, getting his knees on the outside of Peter's. He still had a hold of Peter's shaft and settled into an easy rhythm, staring down at his prisoner with a smoldering, possessive gaze. Peter stretched lasciviously, rolling his hips into Gabriel's gradually quickening strokes. He brought his hands above his head and overlapped his wrists. "Hold me down," Peter whispered huskily.

Gabriel blinked, eyes wide, looking from Peter's face to his hands in astonishment. Peter quirked a single brow in further invitation and gave the man a mischievous look. Gabriel shut his mouth, which had fallen open, and shifted to reach up and seize Peter's wrists. He couldn't hold himself up as well, but Peter liked the feel of the man's body resting on his own, pressing him down and holding him in place even more firmly. It gave him something to struggle against. Gabriel marveled openly at Peter like this was the height of kink. Peter was delighted. He smiled smugly as he thought,  _Oh wow, I could have so much fun with him!_

Gabriel still watched him, gazing into his eyes, owning him, possessing him, and controlling him. His grip tightened as Peter fought intermittently against him. Gabriel kissed him several times as he pumped at him, but never broke eye contact. It was Peter who finally did, as his lids fluttered and his eyes rolled back and one wanton moan after another was pulled from him by Gabriel's persistent fingers. His body shuddered and he came between them. Gabriel covered Peter's slack mouth with his own, biting gently at his lips and luxuriating in the feel of Peter's heaving breaths across his face.

Gabriel kissed him one more time and released him, rolling off to lie on his side. After a moment to collect himself, Peter rolled to face him. His hand trailed down Gabe's front from his chin, down his breastbone, across his stomach and then down the line of hair that led to his manhood. Gabriel was rock hard. Having Peter trapped under him, squirming, moaning and calling out had just about done Gabriel in all by itself. Peter encircled him with his hand. Gabriel whimpered, bit his lip and hugged him, working to get both arms around him and holding Peter tightly. Peter jerked him as Gabriel gasped in his ear with each steady stroke, coming almost immediately.

Gabriel's forehead rested on Peter's shoulder as they held each other loosely and wound down. When his panting had slowed to normal, Gabriel asked, "Enough mystery. I have to know – explain 'cooties' to me."

"Hygiene," Peter said, stroking the other man's back.

Gabriel stiffened, reacting even more badly than Peter had feared. " _ **Hygiene?**_ " His voice was incensed. "I  _clean_ myself. As you would know if you had yet to bother to touch me there!" He shifted uncomfortably and Peter ran his hands over the man more quickly, trying to soothe.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." That didn't seem to calm Gabriel down, who was breathing hard again, now through clenched teeth. The man pulled back to glare into Peter's face from inches away. Peter was worried, afraid and put off. He'd just had sex. He seriously,  _ **seriously**_  did not want a confrontation. Everything in him shrank from it.  _What is it with this guy that he wants to fight right after sex?_ "Please let it be okay?" Peter begged and that seemed to get through a little.

Gabriel blinked a few times, mitigating his glower but growling, "It won't be ' _okay'_  until it makes  _sense_."

"Okay, listen, I don't want to get feces on my dick, alright? I know you're clean otherwise." Now it was Peter's turn to freeze up, expecting the worst.

Gabriel continued staring at him as Peter withered from the scrutiny, his own eyes darting away apprehensively. "That's it?" Gabriel asked.

"What do you mean, 'that's it'? Yes, that's it!" Peter insisted, irritation edging his voice. He was beginning to resent the constant threat Gabriel was emoting.

Gabriel thought that through. He wrapped his hand around the back of Peter's head, cradling it, and tried to draw him forward. For a second Peter gave him a suspicious look and resisted, then relented and went with it. Gabriel gave him a slow kiss, shutting his eyes. When they parted, Gabriel said, "Okay. That hangs together."

"Glad I pass muster," Peter grumbled sourly.

Gabriel gave him a wry grin. "Even if this is all a trick-"

Peter interrupted with a tone of mock affront, "Hey, I do not turn tricks!"

Whatever Gabriel had been about to say was lost in a choking laugh. He drew Peter against him in another embrace. His laugh journeyed briefly into near-hysterical relief before cycling back down - another part of the emotional roller coaster Gabriel seemed to ride each time after sex. Peter wondered how fucked up the man's life had to have been to have intimacy trigger him so deeply. Peter suspected Gabriel was managing it as well as he could, because he  _really_  wanted to be with Peter. Now it was Peter who rearranged them so he could kiss gently. "I like you," Peter confessed quietly.

Gabriel opened his mouth with the evident intention of brushing that off. Peter expected as much, but then Gabriel paused and did a double take. He glanced away and upward like he was digging through his memories (or maybe Nathan's). He looked back at Peter and spoke with his voice a little higher than it should have been. "You … you do?"

"Yeah." Peter smiled softly and rubbed his nose against Gabriel's.

The other man's mouth fell open for a moment before he caught himself and bluffed with patently false assurance, "You're- you're just saying that because you're in bed with me."

Peter rejoined, "I'm in bed with you because I like you."

"Well …" Gabriel didn't seem to know what to do with that. He clearly wasn't going to express the sentiment in return. That bothered Peter, but sadly, it wasn't new.  _I shouldn't have said anything_ , Peter remonstrated himself.  _It's like the death knell for my relationships_. Gabriel finished awkwardly with, "Good." He pushed Peter away and turned to climb out of bed. He missed Peter's despondent look and the way Peter ran his hand over the warmth Gabriel had left behind.  _I want more … than just a quick fuck, or some way to spend the time here_ , Peter thought. Gabriel said over his shoulder as he started towards the bathroom, "Come on. Let's get breakfast. And I need to shower."

"Yeah," Peter said, forcing his voice to normal. He cleared his throat and sat up, throwing off his moment of depression. "A shower sounds good."

Gabriel stopped in his tracks and looked back at Peter, who looked up at him innocently. Peter hadn't meant anything at all by the statement except he needed to clean up as well. "You-" Gabriel started, obviously thrown, "you want to shower with me?" Perhaps it was the surfeit of intimacy that led Gabriel to assume that since Peter had already allowed so much, that he was pushing for even more. Quickly Gabriel got his emotional footing under him and added with a faint growl, "You mean you want to make sure I get ' _clean_ ' enough for you?"

 _Touchy, insecure bastard! I am_ _ **not**_ _letting this get started. I get enough questioning of my motives already._ Peter got to his feet and stalked his naked ass over to Gabriel, pointing angrily at the man's equally bare chest. "Hey! I  _want_  to be with you. Get that through your thick skull, okay?"

Gabriel looked him up and down challengingly, then reached out one hand and shoved Peter on the shoulder, pushing him back a step.

Peter hesitated, turning his head and knitting his brows.  _Is he playing?_ He reached out tentatively and shoved back. Gabriel grinned, confirming Peter's thought. He reached out and hooked a hand around the back of Peter's neck. Peter twisted, knocking his hand away, laughing as Gabriel tried to get another grip on him. They play-fought for a moment, being very gentle with each other considering the violence they'd shared for so long, before Gabriel finally managed to pull Peter's face close enough to his own that Peter stopped struggling for fear of accidentally head-butting the man.

Gabriel kissed him softly, then looked back and forth between his eyes. "You really want to be with me?"

"Yes."

"It's not just because I've been pushing myself on you?"

Peter gave him a tender look. "I was flirting with you before that, you know?"

"Yeah." Gabriel took a deep, steadying breath. "I noticed." He gave Peter another short kiss. "I could hardly believe it. I thought you were teasing me, torturing me."

Peter barked a laugh. "I  _was!_ "

Gabe gave him a sardonic smile and raised his brows briefly. "Yeah," he said slowly. "It was a nice change of pace, though. It gave me hope." He looked down briefly, then averted his eyes to the side when he saw what that put into view between them. His hand at the back of Peter's head tousled his hair briefly, a friendly, familiar gesture almost but not quite like Nathan's. "I have hope. Maybe there can be something … else … between us than there has been."

Peter's eyes narrowed a little and he leaned in just slightly, face very serious. "I want that too - very, very much." His eyes went between Gabriel's, just inches away from him. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Gabriel was silent, letting his gaze drop. The wheels were turning in his head. He'd been betrayed and sold out so many times, too frequently by people who had the last name of Petrelli. When he raised his head, he still said nothing, but he kissed Peter again, fast and hard and desperate. Peter cleaved his body to Gabriel's, willing to take as long as it needed to prove himself.


	8. Star Bright

Days passed, then a couple of weeks. Peter didn't keep track of the days, but he assumed Gabriel did. He was pretty sure it hadn't been a month yet. They were still all over each other, as new lovers often were. They banged on the wall when they weren't banging each other. Peter taught Gabriel things in bed (even the non-beginner moves); Gabriel taught Peter a few things in the kitchen (including what binder was). They had spent this particular morning hammering, stopping frequently to tell jokes (in Gabriel's case) or short paramedic stories (in Peter's).

Gabriel stopped working. "Lunchtime, man," he said, waiting for Peter to pause.

"It sounds a little-"  _swing_ , "different-"  _swing_. He felt like he was getting somewhere, like something was going to happen. Of course he'd thought that for a long time now, ever since they'd come back to the wall after Peter had spent the night and found some of the bricks actually loose in the mortar. But frustratingly, none would actually come out. Something was holding them back and keeping them here. Peter was beginning to think it wasn't him.

He'd been straining his senses, what he imagined to be Matt's ability, every day that they came down here. Every time a bit of mortar crumbled, he felt something deep inside. He was feeling it now, a strange tingle and a sense of anticipation. He swung harder. He'd be taking a break in a moment anyway so there was no reason not to push himself now. He'd tried visualization exercises, but they didn't seem to do any better than sheer brute force, which was at least satisfying in a small way.

Gabriel sighed and turned, leaning against the wall where he used to rest while Peter worked. He stared off down the alley, an introspective expression on his face. He seemed as lost in deep thoughts as Peter was in physical labor. Peter glanced at him a few times, but said nothing. He suspected that whatever Gabe was thinking was why Peter felt like something was about to give. Gabriel looked down, studying the ground. Peter went back to watching how he handled the hammer, especially reluctant to take a break now that it seemed like his partner was on the edge of something. Gabriel started to speak, then cleared his throat and tried again. "I believe you."

Peter glanced over at him, trying to make sense of what he meant. What was it he believed?

Gabriel went on as if talking to himself, staring at the ground, voice hollow. "I think you're sincere. That you're … sorry." He kicked at the ground with the toe of one foot. He sighed again, deeper than before. "Thank you," he said softly, but clearly, raising his voice a little to be positive he was heard over the thumping smack of the hammer on brick. "I accept your apology. What's done is done." He nodded to himself, straightening from where he'd been leaning on the wall, standing tall. "It's over. It's the past. We have the future now."

'The future'. 'We'. That was what Gabriel believed and it all made sense to Peter in an instant. It wasn't just the apology; it was Peter being with Gabriel, what with the watchmaker still concerned that Peter was only servicing him with the intent of manipulating Gabriel into serving Peter's goals. That Gabriel thought it might all be a sham stung Peter to the core every time they were together. Peter took it as the penance for what he'd done to Sylar over the years and the cost of his failure to reach out to the man years before when he needed it.

Peter paused in his work to regard Gabriel. " _We_  have a future," Peter stated as an indisputable fact, putting emphasis on the two of them together. Gabriel nodded in agreement. Peter snorted softly in defiance of doubt and drew back the hammer for his next swing. A sound that he felt inside his head and across his skin as much as he heard with his ears startled him back, making him half drop the tool from suddenly nerveless fingers. He gaped at the wall as it cracked with a noise like a stroke of lightning, the sound echoing off the alley walls like thunder.

Peter gasped and jumped back, then forward to haul Gabriel away from it in case it collapsed. Bits of mortar rained down from the seam that split it from base to crown, but the wall otherwise held firm.  _Well_ , Peter thought with satisfaction and awe,  _I guess that was what I was feeling was going to happen._  They both stared up at the barrier: Peter in wonderment; Gabriel in dawning horror. "No," Gabriel whispered as the rumbling faded into silence.

Peter blinked suddenly and looked at him in consternation. The tingle inside, the lingering echo of Matt's ability, went quiet. Peter grasped after it mentally, but it was out of his reach. A yawning pit instead opened in his gut. He'd been right - it wasn't him holding them here.

"No. No!" Gabriel's voice rose in alarm and he moved between Peter and the wall, as if to physically prevent Peter from hitting it again. He held his arms out as if to block him, face frightened and wretched.

Peter backed off just from looking at him. He stared at Gabriel in confusion. The other man followed him the few steps and reached out, snatching the hammer away from him. After a token resistance, Peter let him take it. He searched Gabriel's face, but he knew he was right - Gabriel didn't want to leave. He'd found love here and freedom from the oppression of his ability. There was quite literally nothing that he wanted in the world outside - no friends, no family, no future. And if he let Peter out, there would be nothing for him here either. Peter felt a stabbing, sympathetic pain for Gabriel's dilemma.

Peter swallowed roughly, looking past him at the half-inch wide crack that rent the wall. It was so tantalizingly close, like all he might need to do was give it the right shove.  _I was getting somewhere. **We**_ **are** _getting somewhere. You can't live in here forever_ , he thought in reference to his partner. _Don't give up now_ , Peter urged had seen his look at the wall and bared his teeth in response, putting his hands out to the side as if trying to conjure telekinesis against him. Peter registered that Gabriel was willing to fight to keep him. The realization chased away the chill that was threatening his heart.

 _Fighting isn't the answer. Maybe I can show him a different way._  Peter raised his own hands slightly in surrender. "You said you believed me," Peter said with earnest imploring. "Please believe me  **now**  when I say that things aren't going to be any different when we get out. None of this was a lie. You don't have to save anyone, or be anything that you aren't."

Gabriel glared at him, an expression that eventually faltered as Peter did nothing other than let his hands fall slowly back to his sides. Gabriel sagged, looking down at the ground and breathing heavily. He commanded, "Stay away from the wall, Peter," and looked up at him again from under his brows. Peter met the menacing gaze, then looked to the wall beyond. He nodded and as he did, a handful more mortar bits fell down from the crack. Gabriel wheeled and looked at it in fear, but nothing else happened. The man threw down the hammer with a frustrated, angry noise. "Get away from here!" he snarled over his shoulder.

Peter turned and walked away, leaving Gabriel to guard the wall from him. _I don't need the hammer anymore_.He was sure of it.

* * *

Peter stayed out the rest of the day, wandering around, poking into places he hadn't seen before. He had a feeling he wouldn't be seeing them again. Things were on a cusp. The very air seemed to tingle around him. He felt like he had a lot of thinking to do, but it was tough to actually "think" it. What was he going to do? How much time had passed in the real world? Would they still be able to get to the carnival in time? Would Gabriel help him? What could he do to convince Gabriel that things would be okay when they got out? He could come up with the questions, but the answers all depended on Gabriel. There was little that Peter himself could do.

Gabriel wasn't at his apartment that evening. Peter went inside and made dinner. They'd been cohabitating almost continually since they'd started having sex. Cooking one meal and splitting it was a natural evolution of sharing time together. Peter waited until dinner was cold, then put it away. He put on his jacket, picked up something he'd found whilst roaming about, and went down to the wall. He'd been told to stay away and he had. He wasn't going to the wall - he was going to see Gabriel, even if all he did was tug the man back to the apartment so he could warm up the food for him. Peter smiled a little, thinking about all those times when Sylar had lured him away with promises of dinner and conversation. Their roles had flipped.

He saw Gabriel sitting in the dimness, facing the wall, legs crossed with his arms wrapped pensively around them. Peter walked up on him with steady strides, but Gabriel gave no reaction even though he had to hear him coming. Peter wondered and worried about that, but he didn't know what to make of it. He tapped the man's far shoulder playfully and then switched, tossing his package over the other and into Gabriel's lap.

"Happy birthday," Peter joked over his shoulder as he walked on past, moving to stand between the sitting man and wall. Peter gave it a once-over, but it was as it had been at noon. Peter turned his back on the wall. It wasn't what he'd come for. Gabriel was watching him with wide eyes. When Peter turned to face him, Gabriel blinked away and looked at the wrapped package instead.

"It's not my birthday," Gabriel pointed out in a hollow voice.

"Yeah, I know." Peter smiled warmly.  _He's always so literal_. His chest felt tight at how impossible Gabriel was at times. If he got stuck here with the man … well, there were worse fates. Hopefully someone else would step up to save Emma and the rest. Peter's expression faded as he examined the surprising intensity of his feeling.  _Oh wow._  He looked at Gabriel with new eyes as the man unwrapped the book and took it in.  _Have things ever changed_. Peter hadn't realized how far his acceptance and affection had gone. He'd wanted it to mean something, but he hadn't thought it would mean … what it did. His heart hammered in his chest. "Y-you just wore out your other copy and … I saw that one digging around." He almost stuttered through the delivery, falling silent afterward.

Gabriel's eyes rose to Peter's face, then dropped back to the book. He looked like his soul had been stripped bare, now that Peter really looked at him. So much emotion, mixed and desperate and devoid of hope was on his face. "That's very kind of you, Peter. Thank you." He hesitated for a long moment, looking down with his shoulders drawn inward, like he was being weighted down by a great burden. "You've always been very kind."

Peter knew at that moment that Gabriel was aware it was he who was keeping them both there. That was the burden pressing down on the man.  _Guilt_. Peter blinked and looked away. He knew of no way to ease it, or lift it, or share it. He wouldn't lie and say he wanted to stay, because he didn't. Peter wanted the world. He wanted to make a difference and be special in his own way: helping people. He wanted Gabriel to do the same. He looked at the hammer still lying on the ground where Gabriel had thrown it. He didn't think it would help. The wall was all a metaphor anyway - he'd figured that out a long time ago but it hadn't stopped him from hammering on the damn thing. If anything, it had only made him more determined.

Gabriel rose as if threatened by that single glance, setting the book to the side for the moment. Peter cooperated by moving away from the tool. He looked aside and down, making a small gesture of acquiescence. Gabriel sighed at that, accepting that he'd overreacted. The man walked to the wall, putting his hands on either side of the crack. He stared straight ahead at it. He spoke like he was delivering a eulogy. "I've been thinking … I'm sorry … for what I've taken from you … and the things that I've done."

Peter was a little surprised the wall didn't vanish then and there, or collapse, or whatever it was going to do. He hadn't come here expecting anything at all, except to find Gabriel and try to get him to come away. Peter wanted to leave - yes - but he knew that wasn't a decision he got to make and he was at peace with that. If Gabriel wasn't ready to leave, then so be it. Peter would wait until he was.

But Gabriel wasn't finished. He looked down at the ground, fingers moving restlessly along the brick. "I understand now what you meant about the stupid apology game." He pushed off from the wall and looked up towards the top, eyes very wide and soulful. He looked almost like he was appealing to God. Peter blinked and followed his gaze heavenward briefly, then looked back to Gabriel as he kept speaking. "It's not stupid; it's not a game. If I could go back and I was in the exact same situation, the same circumstances," he turned and looked at Peter, "I'd find another way. I did wrong - before." He swallowed and regarded the wall once more as if expecting something to happen. Peter felt it, too - the whole world was warping. It had never felt so unreal. Gabriel offered, his voice rough, "That's my confession." He sniffled and Peter took a step towards him. Gabriel held him off with a raised hand. "And here's my contrition: I won't keep you here."

Peter pulled in a deep breath, his own eyes watering. The smell of drying masonry had never been so clear. He could almost feel his body in Matt's basement. He blinked, struggling to stay in the dream for a moment more, even as he could feel it slipping away. He stumblingly tried to walk towards Gabriel, extending his hand. Gabriel looked at him with a sad resignation. He was still in Matt's nightmare prison, but Peter could feel everything unraveling. Fear sank its claws into him with the knowledge that Gabriel might not come with him.

Peter struggled forward with all his might, relieved when his hand closed firmly on the other man's shoulder, backed by more conviction than Peter had ever felt for saving anyone. "Come with me," Peter said, but although the air was still, it was as though his words were being whipped away by the wind. He wouldn't go alone. He wouldn't go without Gabriel. Peter resolved that in his mind, trying to summon every shred of Matt's power to keep them together. "I lo-"

There was a blinding light, like the glitches in time and space that Peter had felt when he'd first walked in this dream world, before he'd found Sylar here. His eyes flew open and he was in Matt's basement, a whirling telepathic awareness thrumming around him. He clambered to his feet, turning immediately to the now-finished brick wall. He went to it, sensing Gabriel behind it, feeling his mind and hearing him wake.  _Thank God,_  he thought, feeling the knot in his chest ease. His fingers clutched at the wall as if wanting to dig through it. _Gabriel?_  he projected, hoping the other man could hear him as he put his ear to the wall and listened.

 _Get back!_  was the reply. There was a faint rumble and for a moment, Peter glimpsed Gabriel's awareness of the tendrils of telekinetic power he was harnessing, pulling together, and beginning to direct at the barrier.

Peter scrambled away, shutting off the telepathy for the moment, barely escaping the muffled explosion as the juggernaut who might be Sylar was unleashed on the world again. Peter coughed roughly and got back to his feet, turning to see Gabriel exit his prison, hitting his head on a jutting brick as he did. The responsibility for his act in freeing this man loomed large in Peter's mind. It was a risk he would take though, and gladly.

"How long has it been, really?" Gabriel asked, obviously trying to orient himself as his view of reality shifted and solidified.

Peter looked at his watch. It was working now. He felt a pang of annoyance at that. Part of him (a small, irresponsible part) had preferred living in nowhen, where the only meaningful passage of time was marked by what happened between the two of them. Now they lived on everyone's time, not just their own. "Half a day, maybe." He looked up at Gabriel and assessed him, a lop-sided smile on his face.  _He came with me! He didn't have to. But he did!_

"Feels like we were in there for years," Gabriel said, an edge of distrust heavy in his voice. His eyes searched Peter's face repeatedly.

"Yup," Peter said, regarding the man like he was trying to commit his face to memory - which he was. There were subtle differences to reality. A few hours ago, this had been his enemy. They weren't in a dream anymore and things … things were  _different_. All of the events, everything that had happened in that nightmare had a skein of unreality now, like they'd woke up from a very long, shared illusion.  _God - I hope this is all going to be okay. I don't ask You for things very often, but let this work!_  His face sobered.

"Does that make it any less real?" Gabriel asked, and Peter knew what he was really asking even though he wasn't reading the man's mind at the moment: was anything that had passed between - the affection, the relationship, the promises - was it real?

That, at least, Peter could answer. The events were hazy and getting hazier by the second, but the emotion was strong and true in his heart. He brought up Matt's power in his mind and activated it. He reached out mentally and clumsily touched Gabriel's thoughts. He wished he could share his feelings and not just his mental words, but he'd never been especially astute with any of his powers.  _You hear me?_

 _Yeah,_  Gabriel replied hesitantly in his head. A faint layering of lust for that ability slithered in the back of Gabriel's mind. He, on the other hand, would wield telepathy like a scalpel instead of the butter knife it was in Peter's hands - and he knew it. The former killer ignored the urge determinedly.

 _I'm **with**_ _you_ , Peter projected, with the mental conversation happening faster than verbal ever could. Peter was hearing Gabriel's every thought, but Gabriel only heard those thoughts Peter chose to send to him. _It was **real**_ _. But I have to leave. I have to go to the carnival and stop Samuel._

_You're not going to leave me!_

Peter gave a mental sigh. It wasn't … ideal. And here was the first intrusion of the real world. He couldn't ask Gabriel to go without it seeming like he'd lied when he said the man's help wasn't required. But Peter wasn't going to fail to try on his own. There was still time. Thousands of lives hung in the balance. There had to be something Peter could do to help on his own.  _I'll find you after. I **promise**_ _._

There was a brief pause as Gabriel processed, sorting through what he knew of Peter's motivations. The opportunity to save people was dangling before the empath and Peter could no more deny it than a year or two before, Gabriel had been able to turn away from an offered ability. This was Peter's version of the Hunger, strong enough to make him run out on someone whose worst fear was being left alone. Gabriel could hate him for that … or show Peter that he'd learned a thing or two in that mental prison they'd just escaped.  _You are such a hero, Peter._ If Peter hadn't been reading Gabriel's mind, he wouldn't have caught the fond exasperation in the man's tone.  _Some day we're going to have to do something about that fixation of yours._

A bit of a smile teased across Peter's face _. Yeah, well, I like saving people. I think you would too, if you'd try it_ , he offered hopefully. _  
_  
Gabriel answered immediately, _I'm going with you._

Peter's smile firmed. Things might work out after all. "Let's go save Emma," he said aloud.


	9. Stellar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My immense and boundless gratitude to means2bhuman and thegreyhawke for lending their efforts in beta reading and commenting on this entire story. My thanks also to dancingdragon3 for her assistance in this chapter.

They hadn't spoken since getting out - not in any meaningful way, at least. They'd been distracted dealing with Eli and then Matt. Eli had been simple; Matt was complicated. There was a lot that had happened there with Matt that Peter wanted to think about, but he didn't have time. No longer was the world on hold while he had the leisure to sort out his issues and figure out how he felt. Things were moving fast now. He had to make choices without years of subjective time to consider them.

He stood in the driveway of Matt's home, trying to calculate how long it would take to get from California to New York. No mundane means would get him there in time and Hiro's teleportation wasn't available.  _Flight_. Fortunately that just happened to be available.

Gabriel was watching Peter with that intent scrutiny of his, his mind not so much blank as open and waiting, fully intending to follow Peter's lead. Letting Gabriel out invited a burden of responsibility. Peter had long known that. It hadn't occurred to him that in addition to being accountable for what Gabriel decided to do, Peter might also be called upon to make the decisions themselves. He could hear from Gabriel's thoughts that this was exactly the situation - Gabriel was putting his full faith in Peter, leaning on him like a man with a broken leg would a crutch. He needed the support; for the time being at least, he needed healing as much as any patient. Peter wanted to be that support.

Peter looked back from contemplating the sky. He gave Gabriel's hand a tickle and his face a shy smile. He didn't reach over and take the power he wanted anymore than he was using Matt's ability to probe deeper than Gabriel's surface thoughts. Peter knew he shouldn't even be doing that much. He'd felt the anger that had welled up in Gabriel at Matt violating his mind again just a few minutes earlier and at the same time he'd seen Gabriel's eagerness to endure it if it proved he was good now. He would undertake any violation to prove his worth and that was a darker place than Peter had realized Gabriel was in. He wasn't sure how to deal with it, but he would start by minimizing reading the man's mind.

He touched Gabriel's palm gently and extended his ability slowly, giving Gabe a chance to pull away before Peter duplicated one of the man's abilities. Gabriel didn't, giving Peter an appraising look and taking his hand more firmly, wordlessly signaling his acceptance. Peter's emotions were complex. He was grateful and worried and thrilled beyond expression. In a way, he was glad the opportunities for conversation were few. He didn't know what he'd say or what the repercussions would be for his words. For now, he went with actions.

They shot across the sky like a pair of guided missiles, going faster than the speed of sound. Gabriel lagged as they passed over the Rockies, looking down at the curious formations wrought by millennia of geological action. Peter slowed too, flying a lazy spiral around the other man. They had time for a little sight-seeing, and besides, it gave him a chance to enjoy what he was doing, rather than remain focused on nothing but speed. Peter loved to fly - to spread his arms and let the world buoy him up. Gabriel noticed Peter's aerobatics and darted suddenly towards him, grabbing at him cheerfully. Peter swerved out of his way and laughed when his abrupt juke let him escape. A moment later they were playing tag, punching through clouds and racing into twilight.  _Let's go be superheroes together_ , Peter thought with a grin. Matt had said it like it was a bad thing. Peter thought it sounded awesome.

It was dark when they got to New York, landing unseen among the many trees of Central Park. Peter's face was drawn and pale; the playfulness of earlier was now long gone. He looked to Gabriel with far more jitters than he usually had going into a tense situation like this. Gabriel's expression gave him no help - it was fixated on Peter like an attentive student on a teacher. Peter had never felt so clearly that his own flaws were on display, being judged and probably found wanting.

He tried to take his mind off it and  _ **focus**_. He had a mission. Or rather, Gabriel had a mission. Peter knew what he'd seen in the dream. Usually he was trying to fight the future and oppose destiny, trying to wrest a better world from events foretold. This time his struggle was to make the prophecy come true rather than find a way to prevent it. He'd come this far - five subjective years, learning the heart and soul of his brother's killer, restoring Peter's faith in the humanity of even the worst people - now he faced the hurdle of putting his faith in Gabriel to the test. It was a harder challenge than had come before because instead of being able to fight and strive to batter down the wall, he had to wait passively, fearfully, and hope that someone else held up their end. Peter's challenge was not  _ **how**_  to act: it was  _ **not**_  to act. That was very difficult for him.

They walked together through the carnival, Peter's mind racing and worrying. He knew what was going to happen. He  _knew_  it. He'd dreamed it, seen it, foreseen it, predicted it, and brought it about. But he was still eaten up by nerves about it. All the confusion - sights, sounds, smells, sensations - broke his concentration and made it hard to think. He'd had such a long period of quiet in a fairly sterile, controlled environment. This was so much life at once that it was overwhelming. He was having trouble coping.

People were everywhere, jostling and talking excitedly. He didn't know where to go. Gabriel tagged along obediently. Peter was too embarrassed to tell him he was lost and freaked. He was pretty sure Gabriel was starting to figure that out because the man was looking around more and even made an abortive attempt to go off on his own. Peter called him back, still struggling with the idea that he had to trust Gabriel to do his thing. And perversely, Peter didn't want to be alone even thought he was in the middle of a crowd.

Peter drew them up in front of a particularly packed promenade. He'd caught a glimpse of this specific place in his dream, but he wasn't sure what came next. "All these people," Peter said, "like lambs to the slaughter."  _All these specials, with Sylar right here in the middle of them. So much noise and confusion that I'd never know if he did something. What do I do?_

"It's not going to happen," Gabriel tried to reassure, drawing even with him and leaning closer. His hand brushed the back of Peter's arm in quiet support. If he suspected Peter's doubts, he didn't mention them. Instead he took the lead, telling Peter what he was going to do. Peter knew he had to let go at some point. He had to let Gabriel out of his sight. Peter couldn't tell the other man what to do here, either. He had no right to give orders. He'd told Gabriel,  _'You don't have to save anyone, or be anything that you aren't.'_  Now it was time to find out what kind of man Gabriel Gray really was.

Gabriel took a long step away, looking back. Peter stood there looking torn and shell-shocked. His eyes darted uneasily across the crowd, fear evident in his demeanor. Gabriel recognized the emotion. He came back to remind Peter, "Your dream said I'd save her." He laid his hand briefly on Peter's chest, renewing their bond. "Trust me," he asked.

Peter could only stare at him, eyes afraid and tongue unable to voice his fears. He was thinking about how Matt hadn't believed, hadn't trusted and that was after he'd looked deep into Gabriel's mind. Peter had seen Matt's intrusion, peeling back the layers of Gabriel's psyche. He'd itched to interfere, but Gabriel has asked for it. That was when Peter had shut down his own telepathy, realizing how much he'd been trespassing. Now though, he burned to know what Matt had seen.

Gabriel gave a tiny nod, then walked away through the crowd. His height let Peter's eyes track him. Peter wondered how the man would find the right tent. Peter, at least, could look for the ringleader and the main attraction. Would 'destiny' guide Gabriel's steps just as it had Peter's so many times, to be in the right place at the right time? Gabriel had mentioned that he'd spent some time at the carnival, at least days and perhaps weeks, so he knew the layout better than Peter did. Maybe he knew where to go.

Peter swallowed and looked after Gabriel's retreating back, far more concerned than seemed logically appropriate. His heart knew nothing of logic, but it did know trust. Fragile as it was, despite the second-guessing that was making his breaths shallow and robbing him of coherent thought, Peter  _did_  trust or else he would have never let Gabriel out, never brought him here, and wouldn't be letting him out of his sight right now. But now, Gabriel was lost in the crowd and Peter couldn't see him anymore. He blinked and heaved a great sigh, trying to resign himself to letting fate take its course. He felt bereft and lonely as well, which seemed weird until it occurred to him that his sole companion for many years had left his side. He gave himself a shake, rubbed vigorously at his face, and moved on to fulfill his mission. He didn't have many opportunities to fret after that. Even if he had, it was meaningless - the die was cast.

* * *

Later he embraced Emma, so glad she was safe for so many reasons. She was someone he knew and cared about and though she wasn't the only person he'd been trying to save, she was the only one he'd known by name. In his mind, she'd become the face for the nameless thousands. Seeing her alive and free meant that Gabriel had succeeded and stopped Doyle. He pulled back and let his hand cup the side of her face.

He looked at her expression. Even though she'd clearly been through something harrowing, she didn't seem terrorized or traumatized. Peter didn't think that Gabriel, or anyone else, had tried to kill her. But what  **had**  happened? His heart was in his throat. Was Gabriel even now carving up the puppeteer? When she mentioned his friend who had saved her, fear and hope writ itself on his face. Emma led him to the tent where Gabriel had strung up Doyle in a bizarre manner.

"What do you think?" Gabriel asked, obviously proud of himself. He stood next to his display, looking for approval.

Peter stared from where he had stopped just inside the entrance. Doyle had been trussed up to an impromptu A-frame in the middle of one of the tents, hands tied out to the sides along the metal posts. His torso, his feet and his hands were also garlanded with a string of lights that shone brightly. Peter wasn't sure what to say. Doyle looked … put-upon, was probably the best descriptor.  _Well … he's alive. Doesn't even look hurt._  Given that Doyle had just tried to orchestrate the killing of thousands, he'd gotten off pretty lightly so far. Peter was confused about why Gabriel had chosen to decorate him with a string of lights, but … he was sure there was a good reason for that.

"I like it," Gabriel said with an enthusiastic grin, speaking of more than Doyle's confinement. Maybe he could be the savior sort after all.

The side of Peter's mouth twitched in amusement at that thought. He gave a small dip of his head in acknowledgement and approval. Gabriel was so pleased with himself that Peter felt happy for him in turn. Peter felt proud. "Good job," he said warmly, "I'll go find someone who can deal with him longer term." He indicated Doyle, who gave him a tired sneer.

"We will watch him," Emma said, volunteering Gabriel as well as herself.

Peter looked to Gabriel, whose face had brightened further at the implicit trust Emma was putting in him. She had no fear of being alone in a tent with him. Peter certainly hadn't missed that either and so instead of asking Emma to come with him, he let it pass without comment.  _How good it must feel_ , Peter reflected,  _to have people rely on you for help instead of fearing and hating you, never wanting to be near you._  Peter looked over Doyle's setup and shook his head a little in wonderment.  _I like the change_.

Peter found Noah, gave directions and returned, hustling Gabriel out of the tent before Doyle was dealt with by the agents Noah had rounded up from somewhere. As an escaped level 5 prisoner, the puppeteer would end up in some form of Company custody. Peter and Gabriel walked Emma to a tent that held medical supplies. She and Gabriel both seemed familiar with what was where, so Peter let them lead. While one of the other carnival staff whom she knew helped bandage her fingers, Peter and Gabriel went outside to see the cause of the latest round of excitement.

They pulled up in the shadow of a tent near the Ferris wheel, with Peter watching Claire's ascent. Gabriel, other than a brief glance, ignored her. He stood a little in front of Peter and to the side, turned to face him -  _him_ , not Claire or the crowd or anything else. His attention was riveted on Peter. Even though they were out of the mental prison, it was like there was only one person in the world as far as Gabriel was concerned. Peter hadn't clicked to that yet because it was no different than Gabriel had acted in the nightmare.

Gabriel spoke softly next to him, "I could have killed Doyle but I didn't … it felt good, it felt right … It's a brave new world." He spoke partly to himself, as Peter's eyes were fixed on Claire. She could regenerate, so there wasn't anything he needed to do, but he couldn't fathom the consequences of her action. He couldn't fathom the consequences of  _his_ , in releasing Gabriel.  _What is it all going to mean?_

Peter stared forward, eyes almost sightless as he realized everything Gabriel meant with that deceptively simple statement. It was a new world - Peter could leave. Hell, Gabriel could leave. Everything had the potential to be new and different. Gabriel had everyone in the world he could be with and Peter had been left so many times. The fear that he'd felt building since they'd gotten out hadn't really been about Gabriel reverting to Sylar and murdering - it had been about Gabriel abandoning or rejecting him.

Peter liked Gabriel, strange as that seemed. He wanted to count him as a friend. He wanted to make Gabriel smile. He wanted to give him something to smile  _about_. Even if it was only a dream, their minds had touched as intimately as though they had lived together for years with no one else in their world. Peter had never had a friend that long as an adult. Pathetically, even the few subjective weeks he'd spent with Gabriel had catapulted the man to vying for the longest relationship Peter had managed.

He was afraid Gabriel might turn on him, that he might revert to Sylar and have only one gruesome use for the empath, because Sylar had always been an actor. It seemed so ridiculously apparent now to Peter that Sylar might have simply played Peter's affections, giving him what he wanted in order to dupe Peter into releasing him from the prison. Now he was out.

But if that was his game, then why was Gabriel still standing next to him, watching Peter's face, obviously waiting for his reaction, waiting for … absolution? Peter finally tore his eyes away from Claire's spectacle - she was fine, really - and looked at the more important person in his life. He tried to think of what must be going on in Gabe's mind. If Gabriel had not been faking, then this was the moment Gabriel was waiting for - the moment when he'd get stabbed in the back … or not. Peter slipped his hand into Gabriel's and felt his heart clench when those long, slender fingers wrapped reassuringly around his own. It felt good; it felt right … It was a brave new world.

"Yes, it is," Peter said faintly around the lump in his throat. For a moment both of them looked at the crowd and Claire now standing in the middle of them.  _No more waiting_ , Peter thought. He cleared his throat and took his own suicidal plunge. With a little more strength, he continued, "Will you come home with me?"  _Please say yes!_

Gabriel turned dark, soulful eyes on him, tilting his head a little. "I was afraid you'd never ask." His voice was deep and velvety. His hand shifted to rub and caress Peter's. Peter smiled nervously in response, feeling very intimidated by everything - not least the all-consuming way his partner was looking at him.

They walked back to Peter's apartment, still quiet for the most part as their strides ate away the many blocks. Gabriel didn't push the conversation and Peter was still trying to work himself up to asking about  _them_  - the two of them, what Gabriel was going to do now that he was out, had all his powers and had no need to follow the dictates of anyone's morality but his own. How was Peter going to fit into that? Were they going to stay together? He gave a brief, bitter smile. ' _Together_ ' - they'd had a couple hours in a freaking  _dream_  of all things. Before that, they'd been trying to kill each other off and on for years.

Peter could hear Nathan's voice and his father's telling him to wake up and smell the coffee, get his head out of the clouds, see things for how they really were. He didn't like the sound of those voices. He liked the idea infinitely better that he hadn't been lying when he'd said it was real. He reminded himself that Gabriel had cared so much that Peter's feelings had been true, he'd asked if it were real as soon as they'd gotten out (first thing!) and he'd saved everyone when he had no reason to except his own conscience. Intending to drown out the internal naysayers, Peter asked, "Why did you wrap him up in lights? Doyle, that is." They mounted the steps outside of his apartment building, walking into the lobby.

"The electrical current foiled his power."

"It does? How did you know that?" Abilities worked in such strange ways. The key to Gabriel's was that he understood others' abilities, so maybe he could figure out weaknesses just by looking at them.

Gabe's answer was simpler: "I have his power."

"You …?" Peter missed a step in surprise, stopping next to the door to the stairs. Doyle had looked perfectly fine. Had Gabriel managed to take it somehow, or did he have it from before?  _How?_  He gaped at Gabriel, mouth partly open, eyes intent. Gabriel continued walking to the elevator, where he looked up at the numbers over the door as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb into the conversation. Peter recovered himself and joined him, hitting the button for the elevator, since apparently they weren't taking the stairs.

Gabriel gave him a sly look and ducked his head a little as the two of them stood before the elevator doors, waiting for the car. Gabriel spoke like he was confiding a secret, which he was. "I don't have to kill them anymore."

"You don't? How long has it been like that?" he asked in astonishment. His question was just that - a question - and not an accusation, even if his mind went there shortly after the words left his mouth. Gabriel had never mentioned this, though on the other hand, Peter had refused to discuss the other man's methods in gaining abilities and eventually the killer had desisted from trying to tell him. He'd never shared that he had other options. If he'd been able to do that all along, then it made the murders even more unnecessary. _Nathan!_  ran through Peter's mind and his heart clenched, but then again he had never thought Sylar had killed Nathan for his ability.

Gabriel reached up with one hand to scratch at his forehead, glancing aside a few times at Peter to read him. Peter had turned to face him, a posture that was challenging enough to provoke Gabriel into angling his shoulders away in response. Peter saw that, blinked a few times and turned to face the elevator again. He stopped pressing, trying to be aware of how he, too, could overwhelm someone with too much pressure.

After a pause, Gabriel told him, "A while. Between … shape-shifting and being able to be other people, Nathan's memories and knowing what someone else's life was like, and Lydia's empathy so I knew what other people felt like … that's why I went to Matt. I couldn't kill anymore."

Peter's brows rose as he tried to work that out.  _So it hasn't been very long. Lydia's empathy?_  The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, Gabriel following behind.  _That's why you went to Parkman - you wanted to find a way where you wouldn't hurt people anymore_. Peter tilted his head. He wanted to ask more, but he sensed this was not the time to start interrogating Gabriel about his motives.  _You were trying to fix yourself, like one of your watches. Yet when I showed up, you weren't fixed. I think you were messed up, broken. Are you still?_ "But you said you didn't understand, that you hadn't changed. Is that … different now?"

"I hadn't changed. Not then." Gabriel leaned his tall frame on the opposite side of the elevator car and watched Peter, who took up a mirroring position. Gabriel continued, "I couldn't kill, but I still wanted to. I still didn't … didn't think I'd done anything wrong, but the evidence was there staring me in the face. I," he sighed and shook his head, looking over at the flashing numbers marking the floors as they passed them. His expression softened. Peter recognized it:  _hope_. Gabe continued, "I wasn't brave enough to look at it alone." He looked back to Peter, his face showing the vulnerability he had to be feeling. Very softly he added, "I don't want to be alone anymore."

Peter stiffened.  _We already went over this!_  "You don't  _have_ to be. I told you that before."  _Didn't I? I want to be_ _ **with**_ _you, dammit!_  His memory of the mental prison was already infected with a sense of unreality. Five years was collapsing into a few hours, the memories compressing and becoming confused.

As if reading his mind, Gabriel raised a single, Spock-like brow and said, "That was only a dream, Peter."

Peter pushed off from the wall belligerently. He wasn't going to lose what he'd found in that dream without a fight. "Well, then I'm saying it now! I'll say it all again if I need to!" The doors dinged and opened and for some reason that event made a point to Peter about how inappropriate it was to be angry towards  _Gabriel_  for the weird nature of their shared mental journey. Peter took a deep breath and released it, looking off to the side and then down the hall. He chewed on his lip.  _What are we even fighting about?_  He blinked rapidly, trying to marshal his unruly emotions. He was upset; he was tense. He didn't know what he needed to be doing to get what he wanted. Gabriel was doubting him.

While he stood there uncomfortably, Gabriel straightened and sidled over to him, sliding a hand into Peter's. Peter looked up in surprise at the gentle gesture. Gabriel gave him a peck on the forehead and said, "That would be nice." There was an enormous depth of emotion behind those words, even though and partly because Gabriel was clearly trying to pass it off as casual (and failing).

The elevator doors began to close before Peter could respond. He jumped to stop them, releasing Gabe's hand to do it. He reached back for him. "Come on then. I'll tell you in the apartment." He smiled shyly, feeling jitters and butterflies in his stomach when Gabriel took his hand. As they headed down the hall, Peter tried to lengthen his strides to match Gabe's at the same time Gabriel tried to shorten his to match Peter. Peter got ahead as Gabriel fell behind. They both smiled, seeing what the other was doing and laughed at one another. They still hadn't gotten it right by the time they reached Peter's apartment.  _Maybe we'll have more chances to practice that_ , Peter hoped.

Peter unlocked the door, feeling surreal to realize he'd slept here just the night before. Even though he hadn't believed years had gone by in the mental prison, there was still a sense in the back of his head that time had passed. It seemed more realistic that once again he'd come 'home' to find his apartment rented out to someone else and all his possessions vanished - the world having forgotten him and turned its back on him once again. It had happened twice before. But the third time was the charm. He walked inside to see everything was still there. He turned back when he realized Gabriel wasn't following automatically as he had everywhere else.

The other man stood at the threshold, smiling with a mixed expression of hope and concern. His hands were on either side of the doorframe and he leaned in slightly. He cocked his head and spoke with a lilt, repeating Peter's words back to him, "I know this is kind of fast. Maybe you'd rather I left. I don't want you to feel …  _pressured_." He raised a brow, smiling a little wider because he could see already from Peter's expression that he was welcome.

"Get in here, you big goofball!" Peter said, laughing at how ridiculous that was. He'd already invited him home with him. What did Gabriel think, that he'd walk home with him after all they'd been through and then Peter would tell him to go get a hotel or something? He went to the door, grabbed the man's shirt and yanked him inside. Gabriel grinned joyously at him; Gabe's smile lit him up from within.  _So it seems there are things I need to say_. Peter decided to start with the most important first. He pulled Gabriel close, looked up into that handsome face, and said clearly, "I forgive everything. I love you."


	10. Heavenly Bodies

This was hardly the first time Peter had told someone he was romantically involved with that he loved them. This was, though, the strongest reaction he'd ever gotten to such a statement. He knew he had a tendency to blurt out his feelings way too soon, but when he felt this way, he couldn't  _not_  tell someone. He was shot down so often that he'd come to expect it. He didn't know how to take Gabe's response.

"Guh," the man said, sucking in air like Peter had punched him in the sternum. His mouth opened to speak again, then shut slowly as he stared at the empath. He gave a brief shiver and stood there otherwise struck dumb, hands at his sides.

 _Shit_ , Peter thought worriedly. _I'm an idiot. It's too sudden. There's too much between us. What was I thinking? What the hell is he_ _ **supposed**_ _to say to that? I'm going to ruin this. What is it I need to be doing? I'm doing something_ _ **wrong!**_  He stroked Gabriel's cheeks a few times before letting his hands drop, schooling his expression to something less disappointed than he felt.

Peter started to step back, but Gabriel reached for him the instant he moved. "No, no, no, no," Gabriel said quickly and softly, putting his hands on Peter's shoulders and preventing him from pulling away. Peter paused and looked up at him.

Gabriel rubbed the outer edge of Peter's shoulders very gently like he was delicate and fragile. "P-Peter …" he started haltingly, pausing to clear his throat. "That's … that's  _true_." He blinked several times, eyes glistening, and swallowed.

Peter's brows drew together slightly in puzzlement.  _Did he think I was lying to him?_  That mistaken belief seemed likely and wasn't unreasonable. It hadn't been hard for Peter to gather that people had lied to Gabriel and played on his affections all his life. The stories Gabe told of himself were littered with the false promises he'd been given to manipulate him into what others wanted him to be, never asking what he wanted for himself. For the most part, he'd gone along with it because something was better than nothing; that was just how life - his life - was; and he was good at immersing himself in fantasy. It was all a game of pretend and make-believe, a fake world where he could imagine someone cared about him. There were way too many parallels to Peter's own life for him not to have noticed the pattern. He could understand how, when Gabriel was required to face the reality of a hateful, disinterested world, that he became Sylar and wrecked vengeance. Peter hoped the man understood that Peter's promises weren't false and he wasn't trying to make Gabriel into anything he wasn't.

"I have my abilities now," Gabriel told him. "One of them is to detect lies." The man blinked and looked down, to the side, breathing a little deeper. "It's true …  _ **real**_. I …" He brought his head back up, looking searchingly into Peter's face. His right hand crept around to the back of Peter's head. "Can you trust me … one more time? Please?" He tilted his head. "I  **have**  to be sure." His eyes darted briefly to Peter's forehead and he pressed his lips together firmly, then jerked his gaze back to meet Peter's.

That tiny flicker reminded Peter of the desire Gabriel had experienced, just seconds out of Matt's nightmare world, for Matt's ability. He remembered a Gabriel from the future telling him that he felt and fought the Hunger every day. Peter took a deep breath and let it out. The only way they could be together was if Peter trusted him. He nodded shallowly.

Gabriel's long fingers cradled the back of his skull in a secure grip and pulled him forward a little, turning Peter's face up as Gabriel moved closer and bent to meet him. Gabriel's lips touched Peter's and he raised his left hand to caress Peter's cheek, delicate touches that explored the edge of stubble near his jaw. Gabriel's lips slid lightly against his, warm and gentle and sensitive. It tickled and tingled. Peter smiled a little at the weird sensation. His own lips were parted, softly touching Gabe's and moving back and forth across them.

The odd feeling continued, even as Peter licked at Gabriel's upper lip and ran the tip of his tongue across it. It was like sparks were flying between them, each one something precious and vital and unbelievably intimate. Warmth suffused Peter's body, flushing him from foot to crown. Something was happening and it wasn't just a kiss. The feeling flashed him back to an embrace of utter betrayal, when his father had hugged him and stolen his abilities. And now that he thought about it, he was certain - something  _was_  being taken from him. This wasn't  _just_  a kiss.

Peter stiffened and jerked, but Gabriel held him firmly where he was.  _'Trust me'? 'One last time'? Or did he say 'one more time'? Like I'll never trust him again after this?_  He was certain Gabriel was doing something to him, pulling something out of the deepest recesses of his soul. Peter's breaths became hard huffs and his mouth stilled as his blood ran cold.  _He's stealing my ability. He did all this just for my fucking ability?_

Gabriel released the back of Peter's head, but Peter wasn't trying to pull away anymore. He was fucked anyway; his father's theft had been fast. Gabriel had already had plenty of time. Gabriel still tried to kiss him - succeeded, one might suppose, but Peter's lips were frozen. He was fixed to the spot, his heart breaking. Gabriel pulled back, his expression having changed to sorrowful. Peter, though, glared daggers at him, fists balling at his sides. He shook with barely contained fury. Gabriel said pleadingly, "You can trust me. I-"

" _ **Trust you?**_ " Peter burst out suddenly, swinging and punching Gabriel squarely in the mouth with everything he had. He felt bones break satisfyingly in the man's face, but with regeneration, that wouldn't last. Pain lanced up through Peter's hand and for him, there was no healing. Gabriel went straight down on his ass and stayed there, flopping bonelessly and making no move to fight back. It was the fear on Gabe's face that stopped Peter from doing anything else immediately to vent his frustration and rage at the base betrayal.  _What the fuck is he afraid of? Did he think I'd be_ _ **happy**_ _about that? That I could ever trust him again?_ Peter's mind caught on that thought. Gabriel wasn't good at reading emotions or predicting how people would feel about things, but he wasn't so awful at it that he'd think Peter would tolerate having his feeble replacement ability stripped from him. "You stole my ability!" His tone had a hint of a question in it - a doubt.

"No, I didn't!" Gabriel barked out immediately. He blinked and jerked a hand to his lips. "That wasn't-"

Peter's brows drew together. If Gabe had done this just for his ability, then now that he had it, he should be leaving. He wasn't. Everything in Peter told him he'd misread things. He huffed, thinking over that tingling feeling. He scowled and raised his hand to his own lips. They'd been sharing something there. He was sure of it. But what?

"You still have your ability," Gabriel said firmly, picking himself up off the floor and wiping his nose. "Use it!"

Peter dropped his hand and sneered at him, "I'm carrying Samuel's. We're in  _New York_. Fourteen floors off the ground. I'm not going to use it  _here_." But even as he said that, he reached out mentally. He could sense the earth far below him and to a lesser extent the concrete and steel of the apartment building all around them. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him, there was nothing missing. He knew what it felt like not to have any abilities. This wasn't it.

An idea brightened Gabriel's face and he held up his hand, palm outward. "Then take one of mine. Take the last one I used."

Peter looked at the hand suspiciously, but the gut-wrenching feeling of betrayal was already fading fast. He knew he'd made a mistake because he still had his power; Gabriel hadn't taken anything from him. Thank God the man had regeneration. Peter put his hand out to match Gabe's, letting his fingertips touch, feeling the soft skin and brushing against it lightly. He glanced up to see the relief building on Gabriel's face. Peter let out a deep exhalation. Gabriel was awfully forgiving of being hit and being hurt. He had been even before the nightmare. Peter wondered about that. He turned his hand a little and let his fingers twine with Gabriel's and then tighten, palm-to-palm. He took the last ability Gabriel had used, skipping over anything that worked constantly like regeneration or lie detection.

The power was unfamiliar to him and unlike Gabriel, Peter didn't always know intuitively how to use what he had. It danced through his mind as he tried repeatedly to activate it. Nothing happened. There was something sparking faintly where their hands were joined. He pulled his hand free and looked at his palm, puzzled. Nothing continued to happen, though he had a strange urge to pull Gabriel to him and kiss him. It was an urge detached from any emotion of affection - like a habit or a reflexive action - so he ignored it.

Gabriel was looking on hopefully, watching Peter try to figure it out. Finally he said, "Come here. I'll show you," and leaned his face in for a kiss.

"Hey!" Peter jerked back, irritated and baring his teeth for a second. He wasn't completely over the feeling of being taken advantage of.

Gabe flinched like he expected to get hit again - not an unrealistic fear under the circumstances. "Please!" He swallowed and made a soothing motion. "Please, Peter. It works through touch. Erotic touch, mostly. Let me show you. I'll show you how it works. Okay?"

Peter relaxed and nodded. Gabriel brought his face to Peter's slowly, leaning into a simple, chaste kiss, his hands stealing up to rest on Peter's hips. Peter felt a pinging inside of his skull. A channel had opened. He tuned in to it and the same tingle he'd felt before began, but this time the information was flowing into him instead of out. He could sense Gabriel's desires:  _Trust me, trust me, trust me. Oh, Peter, please trust me. I don't want to hurt you. I want to be with you. Let me in. I know you want to. Care for me? I know you do. Please let yourself. Let it happen. Let it be. Let_ _ **us**_ _be._

They weren't quite thoughts. More like motivations and wishes - what he wanted, what the man really, deeply wanted and Peter knew he was getting a level of desire that might even be deeper than Gabriel's knowledge of himself. He pulled back from the kiss, understanding now what Gabriel had done to him before and why. Gabe also feared being taken advantage of, and rightly so.  _He was checking if my intentions were honorable,_  Peter thought with a flash of amusement. "I believe you," Peter said softly, bringing his hands up to touch Gabriel's arms, stroking lightly.

Gabriel smiled slowly and gratefully, kissing Peter again and again in small pecks. Each one made a buzz in Peter's head:  _desire, lust, promise, trust, thankfulness, I can be good, maybe I'm special enough, I want to please you, I want you._  Peter let his eyes slide shut and basked in it, letting the knowledge from the depth of Gabriel's soul wash through him. It was like being inside of his heart. His hands roamed from Gabriel's arms around to run up and down his back. Gabriel's hands, likewise crept around to the small of Peter's back, fingers rubbing small circles just a bit lower.

"You want me?" Peter asked unnecessarily. He could feel Gabriel's arousal in his head, his heart and against his groin, but he wanted to hear it.

"Yes, I do," the other man murmured against his skin, lipping across his temple now and up to his forehead. Very intentionally, he was giving Peter a window into everything he was and wanted. He was sharing himself and Peter felt so privileged by the trust being placed in him. He swore to himself he wouldn't let Gabriel down.

"You want to go to the bedroom?" Peter whispered.

"Uh-huh," Gabriel breathed between smooches.

Peter broke away and took the other man's hand, leading him in. Gabriel released his hand and started disrobing, looking between Peter and the bed uncertainly. Apprehension colored his features and slowed his undressing. He stood to the side of the bed, holding his pants and his shirt, looking around like he didn't know what to do with them.

Naked now, Peter walked over and took Gabriel's clothes from him, tossing them to the side. He smiled slowly to look up and down Gabriel's body, admiring the long, lean lines of his frame. Gabe still wore his underwear and socks. With a blushing glance at Peter's groin (and the empath's obvious interest in the situation), Gabriel turned aside and finished stripping. Peter reached out and smacked the proffered ass that Gabriel presenting to him. The other man jumped and shot him a nervous, but pleased look. Peter tilted his head and said, "You don't need to be afraid."

"I'm not," Gabriel said, straightening and tossing his underwear onto the pile with the rest of his things. He stood taller, acting self-assured. Peter smiled, because that was such a quick turnaround it had to be false. He stepped closer, pulled Gabriel's face to his and kissed him, letting that wonderful ability hum between them. This time it went both ways, but what Peter read from his partner was:  _I'm worried, will you be gentle?, will it be like in the dream?, are things different?, I'm afraid._

"Liar," Peter smirked when his mouth was free.

Gabriel hesitated, looking Peter over with reservations etched on his face. He nodded a little. "Hm, yeah … yeah." Gabriel kissed down to Peter's neck, his hands cradling his head. Peter gave a soft, pleased noise and ground against him, feeling Gabriel's likewise swollen cock between them. Even that motion gave him information:  _I want you, I like that, take me, I'm concerned, do you really love me?, prove it._  Gabriel murmured, "There's no hiding anymore between us, is there?"

It was kind of intrusive, Peter allowed.  _Maybe Gabriel doesn't want to share this much_ , he thought. "I can swap for a different ability if you like."

"No," Gabriel said immediately. He paused with his lips at Peter's ear. "I want you to … know me. I want to be yours."

Peter absorbed what that might mean and the many-layered signals he was getting. "You want me to fuck you?"

They'd done that once, because Peter had insisted Gabriel receive before he pitched. As far as Peter had been able to tell, Gabriel had suffered through it, struggling with memories of abuse from long ago. Peter had refused to try again - and he didn't need to anyway. Gabriel had been a little rough at first as a top, but he'd taken well to instruction.

"Yes," Gabriel said firmly, pulling back to look him in the eyes. "Yes," he repeated, kissing Peter and conveying his certainty:  _Be the one for me, show me how it should be, prove that you're different._

Peter rubbed his nose along Gabriel's. "Get on the bed." He parted from Gabe, allowing the other man to do as he was told as Peter rifled through his sock drawer for something other than socks. He pulled out three neckties. Before climbing on the twin bed himself, he snagged a bottle of lotion from next to it. He didn't have lube or a condom, but he was tested regularly at work and Gabriel's partners were few. They'd worked out the other mechanics in the dream world.  _I'm going to need a bigger bed._  "Get up on all fours."

Gabriel complied. Peter fastened one end of the tie around the man's right wrist and pulled it up off the bed. He put his hand between Gabe's shoulder blades and pressed. "Down," he murmured. "Chest to the bed. Leave your butt up." Gabriel cooperated and Peter pulled the man's left wrist behind him, tying them over the small of his back. The next necktie went over Gabriel's eyes as a blindfold and the last Peter put before his mouth as a gag. He leaned in and kissed Gabriel's cheek, waiting a moment as the man understood his intentions and opened his mouth receptively. Peter gagged him and secured it behind Gabe's head, tightly enough to draw a little at the corners of his mouth.

Peter nuzzled him, making sure of what Gabriel wanted through the empathic touch. Even though he could use (and was using) the ability to know, he said, "If you want me to stop, shake your head. You understand?" Gabriel nodded enthusiastically, flexing his arms against his bonds and beginning to breathe harder, an eager anticipation flooding through his body. Peter moved behind the man, looking down on him - bound, gagged and blind-folded. Peter stroked himself slowly, taking in the sight of Gabriel submitting himself completely. They'd played at this a little in the dream world, but they'd never made the dominance and submission so overt.

Gabriel whined. Peter had paused too long in contemplation. He caressed Gabriel's ass, smoothing his hands over the taut flesh. "I was just looking at you," he said in answer to the unasked question. "You're beautiful." He laid over him, wrapping one arm around Gabe's chest, folding his body around him and letting his erection nudge against the other man's balls. "I love you. I want you." He kissed the middle of Gabriel's back. "It's going to be okay." Gabriel nodded unevenly, head down on the bed.

Peter could feel Gabriel's desires thrumming along under his skin because everything they were doing now was eroticized. The ability was running wide open. Peter mouthed at Gabe's back, making a slow thrust against his ass, his cock rubbing against Gabe's scrotum. Everywhere they touched, his skin tingled and buzzed. He could feel it going both ways, too, with Gabriel using the ability to read Peter's desires and motives as thoroughly as Peter was reading his.

Peter wondered what Gabriel was getting - his desire to take care of him? To help, heal and cure? To dominate and control? Because yeah, Peter admitted that last one to himself. He didn't like to let Gabriel call the shots. He'd never liked it when others tried to run his life - his father, his mother, his brother, anyone. Even Adam had figured out fast that the way to win Peter over was to make suggestions, not to give orders.

Peter straightened and picked up the lotion, squirting some on his hand. He tossed it aside and explored the other man's crack. If Gabriel already knew Peter's darkest desires, then like the man had said, there was no point in hiding. "You are  _mine_ ," Peter said low and firm. Gabriel whined in wordless agreement, pushing his rump back against Peter's hand. Peter put his free hand on Gabe's hip to steady him as his fingers began to probe at his anus. "You like this?"

Gabriel whimpered at the touch, pleading for more. What Gabe wanted was clear:  _Oh!, there!, take me, prove it, own me, want me, please …_  This was even better than telepathy (or rather, better than Peter had fantasized about telepathy, since he'd never had the opportunity to use an ability like this). He adored it. Peter's eyelids fluttered at the intensity of how much he was needed and wanted. He bent and kissed Gabriel's back, working two fingers in and out in steady, sure motions, hooking them expertly to stroke across the man's prostate. He listened to Gabriel gasp and felt him tense and shift under him.  _So responsive!_ Peter could hardly wait to be inside of him.

Peter pulled his hand out and snaked it around Gabriel's waist. He rubbed his index and middle finger - the ones that had been inside of the man - up and down against Gabriel's shaft. It was like a brand, hot and hard, straining against the contact. Gabriel keened and shivered, making an inarticulate sound of need, deep in his throat.

"Uh-uh," Peter remonstrated. "You don't get to come until I let you. If you want to belong to me, you have to give me control. Surrender. Show me I can trust you."

Gabriel nodded, his breathing shifting to broken. Had Peter not been sharing the empathic link, he'd have stopped things then and there out of fear he was pushing too far. But no; this was what Gabriel wanted and Peter  _knew_  that - he felt it. Gabriel wanted someone to take control out of his hands. He wanted someone he could trust to lead him. He wanted to give over responsibility and put it all on someone else - someone he could trust; someone who would love and respect him; someone who would come for him, who would take care of him, who would put up with him and see who he was through all of the facades. He wanted to be topped by someone who cared for him and cared  _about_  him. Peter wanted to be all of these things for someone and he wanted it desperately. The repeated mantra from the empathy that Peter needed to prove himself was making him high with desire.

Peter lined himself up behind him, confident that Gabriel would obey to the best of his ability. Peter slicked himself with more lotion and pressed in, stabilizing his penis with his thumb along the head. He pushed in an inch or two. Gabriel grunted sharply with pain and gave a shudder. He was tight. Even though Gabe wanted it, he was nervous; he was fearful and his body reflected that. He'd been far more relaxed for the prep, but the penetration itself wound him up. This was sex for Gabriel in a way that a blow job wasn't. It was letting someone inside him; and in this case, inviting it, asking for it, and making it his. He was no one's victim in this; he was a fully-present participant, with all the excitement that came with that. He was so keyed up that had he not been told he wasn't allowed to come yet, he might have lost it from the penetration alone.

"Easy, easy," Peter crooned. He took Gabriel's hands, still bound at the small of his back, and held them, curling their fingers together to comfort him. He listened to Gabriel's labored, straining breathing around the gag, teeth clamped into the fabric. Peter was hardly moving at all, letting Gabriel adjust. Peter could feel the man's muscles clenching unhappily around his dick. It felt wonderful to Peter, if a bit tight, but he knew it was hurting his partner. For the moment Gabriel's previously incessant empathic urges of ' _take me!_ ' had paused. Now it was a welter of fear and uncertainty about being violated and used.

"It's me. It's just me, buddy," Peter murmured. "Just me. And I love you. A lot." Gabriel's fingers tightened around his, squeezing steadily. The man took a deep breath and relaxed visibly. Gabriel loosened his grip somewhat and pressed his body back briefly before squeezing Peter's hands again and pulling his body forward with a soft sound. Peter waited for a few iterations of the motion before joining him in gentle counterpoint. Gabriel let out a deep, guttural moan as Peter worked his way inside him. Gabriel sagged and let go of everything but the moment - his fears, his expectations, his demands - all of it. He surrendered and let Peter take over.

Peter released Gabriel's now-slack hands and ran his own back and forth along the man's hips. He guided Gabriel in the movements, adopting a steady swaying until he was all the way in. Gabriel began to keen and Peter felt the hot band of pressure around his cock ease as his partner's body accepted the insertion at last. He pushed harder, grunting and holding Gabriel's hips for leverage, pumping into him faster. When he was able to move in and out freely enough, he reached down and urged Gabe to spread his knees a little. It changed the angle and let Peter thrust downward more easily, hitting the prostate. He knew the second he had it right because Gabriel jerked, gasped and stiffened.

Peter chuckled briefly in a smug satisfaction at making Gabriel react so strongly. No matter what had happened to Gabriel in the past, Peter was sure they hadn't made an effort to let him enjoy it.  _That's the spot._  After a minute or two to get up to speed, Peter started fucking him ruthlessly, ramming it home time after time to a symphony of Gabriel's choked, gasping mewls.

Peter plowed him relentlessly, sensing it through the empathy as Gabriel's desires focused down to a single thing: release. There was no fear, no confusion, nothing but being possessed and played and brought off. Peter reveled in that, orchestrating Gabriel's reactions with finesse and careful attention to every detail of his need. The utter control made Peter feel full to bursting by itself. He was barely keeping himself from popping. The bright pinpoint of Gabe's rapture finally began to be edged with an awareness of actual suffering. Peter reached around and stroked Gabriel's painfully engorged member, extracting a plaintive cry that was half-begging, half-agonized.

Peter could feel something faint, like a shadow of sensation, passing through his hand as he caressed the man's shaft.  _Telekinesis - that's how he's doing it. That's how he's keeping himself from coming._ He leaned over him with a final deep thrust and murmured, "Let it go. Let it all go. Come for me, buddy. Come for me."

Gabriel made a heaving sob and loosed the hold he had on himself. A second later he climaxed with a drawn-out shout, the orgasm ripping through him harder than Peter had ever seen. Peter felt it run through himself and rebound, provoking his own release with the empathic whiplash. It left them both shuddering in the aftermath. Peter could hardly see, he came so hard. He struggled to get his thoughts in order, because he knew aftercare was when Gabriel would need him the most.

Gabriel was always emotional after sex, but this time he was out and out bawling. His desires were a contradictory jumble:  _I'm filthy, that was incredible, I'm horrible, do it again, please hold me,_ _do you still love me?, am I okay?_  Peter hurriedly unfastened the bindings on the man's hands and then pulled out gingerly. Gabriel collapsed to the bed and curled up on his side, crying and struggling to breathe. Gabriel tugged at the gag, but only succeeded in tightening the knot. Peter lay in front of him and struggled with it, unable to get it untied. He could feel Gabriel beginning to panic when Peter's efforts weren't solving the problem. Peter swapped abilities for telekinesis, which caused Gabe's sobbing to end with a sudden, frightened hitch. Gabriel stopped breathing and held perfectly still.

"It's okay, it's okay," Peter soothed, cutting the necktie free and throwing it away. He pushed the blindfold up and pulled it off. Gabriel started breathing again, studying Peter's face for a moment before Peter gathered him into his arms. This time he warned him rather than just snagging whatever ability he wanted, saying, "I'm going to swap back for empathy now." That one was just too damn useful.

Gabriel returned his embrace, crying quietly on his shoulder as Peter slowly stroked his back and occasionally nuzzled the side of his head. It was enough intimacy to continue sensing his feelings:  _I want you_ ,  _I need you, you've saved me, I'm yours, I belong, I fit, don't leave me, thank you, fuck me, I'm special to you, I love you ... I love you._ Peter very slowly laid a kiss on Gabriel's temple as the other man finally got back under control after the hysteria of his release. Maybe Gabriel wasn't one to say the words, but Peter could feel the sentiment and that was more than enough. His affections were returned - he was certain of it.

His voice still rocky and uneven, Gabriel looked up at him tearfully and said, "Peter - I will never leave you. I will not turn on you. I'm not going to get tired of you. We had years together and I want to have more - more years. With  _you_. Do you understand?" He moved his hands up to Peter's face. Gabriel knew what Peter's most hidden fears were and he was addressing them directly.

Peter realized just how deep in he was here. On the one hand it felt like it had been years, but on in reality it had been little more than a few hours. Yet here he was being asked to make a commitment - a long-term commitment. He didn't exactly have a lot of experience with those (actually, none). A reformed serial killer with a Titanic-sized boatload of issues was not the best relationship material. Knowing that didn't make any difference - not to Peter. "I understand," he whispered like it was a sacred vow. "I will give you every year I have."


End file.
